


The Weight of Pain

by ineswrites



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Abuse, Accidental Breathplay, Action, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Attempted Rape/Non-Con, Blood As Lube, Bloodplay, Bottom Jack Rollins, Clinical Death, Consensual Sex, Dammit Westfahl, Drug Abuse, Flashbacks, Gore, Grief/Mourning, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, M/M, Minor Character Death, Murder, Referenced Human Experimentation, Self-Defence, Self-Harm, Suicidal Thoughts, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, Violence, WIP, anger management issues
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-05-22
Updated: 2019-05-05
Packaged: 2019-05-10 06:36:39
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 12
Words: 27,906
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14731811
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ineswrites/pseuds/ineswrites
Summary: He remembers the explosion. He remembers his back hitting the ground, his vision darkening, the ringing in his ears. He remembers seeing Jack’s unconscious body before blacking out.He remembers waking up in a hospital bed two days later with his ankle sprained, his mind stupefied by drugs. He remembers Barton looking down at him with a grim face. He doesn’t remember his exact words, but he does their meaning.Jack’s dead.The world doesn’t wait for him to pull himself together.





	1. Denial

**Author's Note:**

> So, here it is. The mourning fic. This is in no way finished, but I think that despite my various issues including writer's block, I'm finally ready to start posting. More tags and characters will be added.
> 
> For those who don't follow me on tumblr, this is basically thousands of words of Brock trying to move on with his life after his boyfriend's death. Sounds like fun, huh? 
> 
> This was caused by [this one idea](https://quillofchoice.tumblr.com/post/174154318549/an-idea) I once shared on my blog and that wouldn't leave me alone ever since.
> 
> I always warn beforehand if a chapter contains something squicky.

Brock tries to stay professional even as he elbows Hill out of his way; even as he storms into Fury’s office; even as he smashes his hands on the desk, leaning in to glare into Fury’s eye.

“I tried to stop him,” Hill huffs somewhere behind him, but he pays her no mind. “Told him you were busy.”

“I request permission for a rescue mission,” he says in a gravelly voice. “Just me, if you’re saving on manpower.”

Fury stands up and Brock has to straighten up to maintain eye contact. He isn’t intimidated. Even six-foot-five Agent Foster wouldn’t be able to intimidate him right now.

Fuck Foster, the Winter Soldier wouldn’t be able to intimidate him.

“Commander Rumlow,” Fury says sternly. “Agent Rollins is dead.”

“I’ll believe that when I see the body,” Brock hisses.

“Dismissed.”

He huffs a heavy breath. He nods, turns on his heel and leaves, followed by Hill’s glare. His nails dig crescent marks into the skin of his palms.

 

\--

 

He remembers the explosion. He remembers his back hitting the ground, his vision darkening, the ringing in his ears. He remembers seeing Jack’s unconscious body before blacking out.

He remembers waking up in a hospital bed two days later with his ankle sprained and his mind stupefied by drugs. He remembers Barton looking down at him with a grim face. He doesn’t remember his exact words, but he does their meaning.

_Jack’s dead._

He remembers he couldn’t understand at first, unable to grasp the concept. There was a gleam of something he couldn’t name in Barton’s eyes as he tried to carefully explain. _No, there isn’t a body. Rescue found his gear. Rumlow, by the looks of it… something ate him. I’m sorry._

He remembers he didn’t cry when he finally got it. He remembers he didn’t believe it. Not even for a second.

Still doesn’t.

 

\--

 

Their apartment doesn’t look like anything changed in the last few days. He’s greeted by Jack’s leather jacket hanging in the hall. Their mugs filled with dirty water stand where they left them in the kitchen sink. Jack’s hoodie is carelessly thrown over his dining chair. Brock slowly walks over to it, takes it and folds mindlessly, fingers digging in the soft fabric. It smells of cigarette smoke and Jack’s cologne.

He goes to their bedroom to put it away. The bed’s unmade. There’s a dip in Jack’s pillow. The covers are on his side because he always hogs them. Brock opens the closet and rests the hoodie on top of Jack’s folded t-shirts.

He walks to the bathroom to take a shower, pulling off his t-shirt along the way. He throws a passing glance at his mirror reflection, absent-mindedly noting he looks pale and that his hair’s messy; not that it matters at this hour as he’s about to go to bed. He takes the rest of his clothes off, steps into the shower stall and runs the hot water. He stands still under the spray for a while, careful for it not to pour into his eyes, before he reaches for their shower gel—Jack’s shower gel, technically, but Brock can’t be bothered to buy his own so they share.

He’s startled by silence when he exits the bathroom and he stops to stare into the dark passageway for a few seconds. Jack usually stays up late and the TV or his record player is still on when Brock goes to bed. But Jack isn’t here now. The living room is dark and empty.

Brock shakes off his thoughts and walks into the bedroom. He opens the closet to put on his sweats, but his gaze lands on Jack’s hoodie instead. He takes it, his hands trembling, and pulls it on. He turns off the lights, gets on the bed and curls under the covers. He pulls Jack’s pillow close and buries his face in it. It smells of his shampoo.

 

\--

 

As soon as he wakes with a blunt pain still present in his ankle, he grabs his phone from the nightstand and stares at the screen, waiting for… what? A miracle, perhaps. But the only thing that changes are the minutes until the screen goes black and Brock puts the phone away. He limps to the hall, takes a bottle of painkillers out of the pocket of his jacket and pops one.

It doesn’t feel so odd, to get ready for the day without Jack constantly getting in his way. It’s as if Jack’s away on an op, and Brock catches himself on assessing when he will be back every once in a while before he remembers, _oh, right, he’s dead_. The thought doesn’t bring any emotion; it should make him sad but doesn’t, and when he thinks longer about it, he realizes it’s because Jack _isn’t_ dead. He’s _presumed_ dead. Nothing’s set in stone yet.

But SHIELD try to convince everybody otherwise.

He’s on call but he drives to the Triskelion, anyway; with Jack away, what else is there to do? He almost bumps into Hill as soon as he enters the main hall. She’s wearing a funny expression that he at first reads as revulsion before she glances at a crowd of people over her shoulder and her frown deepens.

“Good morning to you, too,” Brock mutters as Hill passes him without a word, but his attention swiftly shifts to what she was looking at and his stomach drops.

There’s a bunch of people surrounding the Wall of Valor; mostly STRIKE, but two or three techs also catch his eye. He swallows thickly as he makes a quick decision to cross the corridor all the way to the crowd. His vision whites out, his heart’s going wild in his chest, but he’s still walking until he reaches them, people stepping to the sides as soon as they notice him, and suddenly he’s standing right in front of the Wall, his eyes searching the top row until he finds exactly what caused such a fuss.

_Agent J. Rollins_

“It’s too soon,” he says, and his voice is hoarse, his mouth dry, but he repeats louder, making sure everyone surrounding him can hear, “It’s too soon! He’s not dead!”

His fists are shaking by his sides and he glares around, ready to fight anybody who dares suggest otherwise.

“But I heard—”

Brock’s head snaps to the side and he sees that _idiot_ Westfahl, the only member of STRIKE without enough self-preservation to stay fucking quiet. Westfahl’s eyes grow wide as he realizes far too late he’s made a huge mistake. Brock doesn’t care Westfahl’s a poster child for STRIKE, six foot tall with broad shoulders; he throws himself at him with his fists up. The crowd comes apart, leaving Westfahl in the center and he steps back. Before Brock manages to reach him, there’s an arm across his chest and a hand clenching his shoulder, and he’s being dragged away.

“Get off me,” he snarls, stabbing the man’s collarbone with the heel of his hand; he gets a catch in his breath in response, but the arm around him and the force dragging him back are unrelenting.

“You’re too fucking happy to bury him!” he shouts. “Y’all fucking hated him, you think I don’t know that?! You can build him a grave but he _ain’t_ dead!”

He’s supporting his weight on the body holding him when he’s done with his tirade, and when he’s shoved inside the locker room, he drops on the bench, completely drained. He rests his head against the cool wall and closes his eyes, the sounds of lockers shutting and people clearing out barely reaching him through the heartbeat in his ears.

He doesn’t know how much time has passed before his heart slows down and he cracks his eyes open just to see Barton standing before him.

“I’m sorry for your loss.”

Brock’s eyes shut again and his face screws up on its own, but he gets it under control. Barton’s the only person who’s thought of saying that to him.

“He’s not dead.” It feels useless to say it again. He’s the only person who believes that. “There was no body, Barton, you told me yourself. If he had been eaten, there woulda been something left… A skull, anything.”

Barton looks like he wants to argue, but changes his mind. He sighs and says nothing.

“I asked Fury for rescue, he said no.”

“I heard.”

“Maybe he wasn’t the best fucking person around, but he was a good soldier. You passed sentence on him way too fucking fast.”

There’s a moment of silence between them before Barton says, “Go home, Rumlow.”

“Fuck you,” Brock says to his back, but he listens.

He goes home.

 

\--

 

They bury an empty box.

Brock doesn’t know why he’s a part of this farce, but he feels he should be here. He was offered to deliver the eulogy, as Jack’s chief rather than a lifelong partner because Jack was raised a Catholic, but of course he refused. 

There’s one heartbreaking moment when Jack’s sister Dina tries to deliver her eulogy but her jaw starts trembling and she hangs her head, her shoulder-length blonde hair hanging in front of her face, and shakes it vigorously. It’s Jack’s uncle who takes the stand after her, just to say a few meaningless words, trying to save the situation, but it’s uncalled for in Brock’s opinion; what Dina did said enough.

She’s mostly composed herself when Brock approaches her, although she has a faraway gaze, as if in her thoughts she’s somewhere on Saturn. He loves Jack, but she’s his _twin._ They’ve been together since before they were even born. She doesn’t know what life without him is like. Brock can’t even begin to imagine how she feels.

“He’s not dead,” he tells her in a low voice. He doesn’t know if it helps her any; maybe he just wants for one more person to believe it.

Her face gains focus and she looks down at him with blue eyes wide with hope and he realizes how it sounded; as if he actually _knows_  something, as if he's in on some joke, or has some classified intel.

“We don’t know for sure,” he adds quickly. “We don’t have any proof.”

She saddens again; it must be something she’s already heard before. “Can’t you make sure?”

Brock sighs. “I tried. Believe me that I tried everything, but they just… They seem pretty certain he’s gone for some reason, I don’t know, maybe they’re hiding something from me.”

He’s thought about it; it is a possibility. Maybe it wasn’t an accident. Maybe the higher-ups wanted Jack gone, for whatever reason. But he can only guess.

Dina gives him a sharp look. “Then you didn’t try hard enough.”

She turns away from him, like she doesn’t believe he knows just as much as she does. His shoulders sag and he walks out of the cemetery, drained. He’s been feeling that a lot lately.

He has driven here, but he doesn’t feel up to getting behind the wheel right now. The weather’s nice for once, so he sits down on a bench, his eyes trained on his parked car, his mind pleasantly blank.

There are footsteps and then a shadow approaching, but Brock doesn’t react until the newcomer takes a seat beside him. He looks up; it’s Barton, watching him with mild concern.

“What are you doing here?”

Barton raises an eyebrow. “Paying respects to a fallen friend and his family.”

Brock looks away, his gaze fixing on his shoes. He hasn’t cleaned them and they’re still dusty. “You weren’t friends.” Jack didn’t have friends in STRIKE, not really.

Brock hides his hands in the pockets of his jacket, wraps his fingers around a pack of cigarettes he carries. It’s Jack’s; Brock quit before he and Jack even met, but he’s been thinking about going back more and more.

A hand lands on his shoulder, squeezing, and he wants to shrug it off, but doesn’t. Dina probably hates him now, Westfahl has been avoiding him since he attacked him, and the rest of the team… They probably think he’s crazy or in denial. The fact that it’s Barton here out of everybody, just silently offering comfort should Brock be willing to take it, leaves a bitter taste in his mouth.

For the first time since joining SHIELD, he clearly sees how truly alone he is.


	2. Sleep

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The non-con referenced in this chapter is Brock mentioning his trash past. That's pretty much it.
> 
> This fic relies heavily on flashbacks. To avoid confusion, they're written in the past tense.

 

Whenever Jack was away on an op, Brock couldn’t fall asleep until he got a text from him. Sometimes it arrived early, and he went to bed content. Sometimes he spent the whole night checking his phone every ten minutes.

There were two variants of the text. The one Brock preferred was ‘Safe. LU.’ ‘Safe’ meant he was in a safehouse or returning already. ‘LU’ stood for, of course, ‘love you’.

The other one was ‘Alive. LU.’ Jack would send it if the op wasn’t over yet, or if he was injured, or if there was any kind of danger still present. It was still better than no text at all, so receiving it soothed Brock, anyway.

 

\--

 

He’s lying on his back on Jack’s side of the bed, staring into the darkness ahead, his phone resting on a pillow beside him. He turned the volume up enough for it to wake him should he fall asleep.

He’s not falling asleep.

It’s not that he’s waiting for a text from  _Jack_  specifically. He’s waiting for any sign that he’s still alive. A call for a rescue should Fury change his mind; a threat from Jack’s possible captors; a cryptic message from a stranger who knows something and is willing to share.

His phone remains silent. Despite this, he lights up the screen every once in a while because maybe he missed something, maybe he shuffled too loud and didn’t hear—

He watches the sunrise equally anxious and exhausted.

 

\--

 

He supposes his insomnia isn’t a genetic thing, that it’s something he’s acquired during his sad, dangerous life, but having never met his parents, he can only guess.

In the orphanage he was brought up in, if one didn’t sleep light, they had nothing. Children make the best thieves. When one owns nothing, what they get is everything; these kids would steal even a pair of dirty underwear just to feel that they possess something. Brock had to grow even more careful when he started to earn his own money.

He went from the orphanage straight to the Army. He didn’t expect things to get better, but neither he expected them to get worse. He should have. He learned very fast that if he wasn’t careful enough, he’d wake up with another man on top of him, and he learned it the hard way. Especially guys like him had to watch their backs. 'Pretty Boy', they called him.

The nightmares came soon enough, both a blessing and a curse.

When he got out, he was bitter but hopeful. He thought his life would change. And the details did, but at the core, it remained the same.

SHIELD Academy was tough. Every student was a competition. Nobody got murdered, but accidents happened. Anything to get rid of you.

Brock, who was never good at anything they taught in school, was both elated and terrified to discover he was made for Operations Division. Manipulation, combat, espionage; name it, he was on top of the class which also made him the number one target. But by that time, looking over his shoulder was second nature. He learned to be functional on just the minimum amount of sleep. He didn’t even have to try; the nightmares never went anywhere.

When he made it to STRIKE, sleeping on missions, even those longer than a day, was out of the question.

Meeting Jack changed everything.

 

\--

 

“We sleep in turns,” Brock said as they stumbled inside the safehouse. “Five hours. Radio silence until 2400.”

He took the cloth he was holding away from his shoulder to take a peek at his wound. He winced; it was still bleeding. Jack was already reassembling his rifle in the open space that could be generously called a living room. There was a table and a worn down couch standing behind it, and that was pretty much it. As far as safehouses went, this one wasn’t so bad.

Brock dropped onto the couch. He wanted to say he’d take the first watch, but he was woozy from blood loss. It’d be smarter if he lay down, just to rest with his eyes closed and wait for the bleeding to stop. Maybe he’d order Jack to make him coffee, or tea. There were Red Bulls still in their car, but getting out there while they were being hunted was out of the question.

Jack set the rifle on the table and pulled a medical kit out of his backpack. He must have snatched it from the car when Brock wasn’t looking. He opened it and took a bottle of antiseptic and a dressing.

“It’s not that deep,” Brock protested.

“Deeper than you thought,” Jack countered. He approached Brock and sat down beside him. “Let me.”

Brock dropped his hand, uncovering the wound, because he couldn’t find a reason not to. When it was dressed, Jack got up, grabbed his rifle and sat down on the floor by the door. He had a good view at the front windows from there.

Brock didn’t remember the exact moment he fell asleep. One moment there were spots of sunlight warming his chest and legs, and the other he opened his eyes to the darkness of the night and—

And a man.

_too close_

He jerked up, supporting his weight on his hands and his left shoulder lit on fire. He remembered the op, the wound, the safehouse. He remembered Jack.

Jack was standing at the couch, watching him from above, his expression impenetrable.

“You slept ten hours. I radioed Support. Extraction in forty-five.”

So it was after midnight.

“Why didn’t you wake me? I said we change after five hours.”

Brock sat up more comfortably, with his left hand resting loosely in his lap. He still felt groggy, and his stomach was heavy from anxiety. He just fell asleep with another person in the room. He was completely knocked out for ten hours.

“You needed it.” Jack nodded at his shoulder and Brock looked, too; the dressing was red and crusty. “I’d change it.”

“Will do.”

There were white spots in his vision when he stood up but he didn’t let it show. It was when he was cleaning the scabbed wound that he realized Jack could have changed the dressing earlier, when he was passed out. He could have touched him. He could have done everything, basically. But he didn’t.

And the understanding of why he fell asleep, why he let himself go finally hit him. All he needed was somebody he could trust.

He looked over at the man who returned to his place on the floor. His rifle rested against the wall, but he was still alert, although tired. He sensed Brock’s gaze and looked up. Their eyes met and suddenly the thought of being vulnerable around him wasn’t so scary anymore. He knew Jack would never harm him because he saved his life more times than he could count.

 

\--

 

It didn’t mean he was magically cured, because he wasn’t. Even after they started sleeping together, the nightmares would lurk in the dark corners of his mind, waiting for him to close his eyes. They surfaced as rarely as unexpectedly, but whenever he woke up gasping for breath, thinking he was back at the barracks, his whole body screaming for him to run, his hands tapping around for any kind of a weapon, he’d happen upon Jack’s warm body beside him and after a second of panic that _it’s really happening again,_ he’d remember.

But that was later. After the night when Jack made a mistake of grabbing Brock’s arms while he was still one foot in the dreamland. Brock reacted instinctively, headbutting him, and stumbled out of bed as soon as he was free, backing up under a wall, clutching the covers before himself as if they were a shield. His back hit the light switch, and as his eyes were adjusting, his mind caught up with reality.

Jack was sitting up in bed with his hands holding his nose, blood dripping down his chin onto his chest.

“Fuck,” Brock whispered, feeling himself trembling. “I’m sorry.”

Jack didn’t turn to look at him. He blindly reached for a couple of tissues, blew out his nose and tipped his head back. Hesitantly, his legs still shivering though he tried to get it under control, Brock approached the bed. He dropped the covers and kneeled beside Jack. For a fleeting second he was worried Jack was mad, but Jack had never been mad at him.

Jack cracked one eye open. “Is it broken?”

“You wouldn’t be so calm if it was.” Brock had had a broken nose before; he knew how it hurt. Nonetheless, he fingered the bone, gently, just to make sure. “No. You’re just delicate.”

“Fuck off.”

Jack straightened his head to check if the blood was still coming. He wasn’t asking any questions. Brock thought that on some basic level, he understood. Still, he owed Jack an explanation, now that he gave him a nosebleed. He took a deep breath, hesitated, and then let it out. He felt a weight crushing his body again, a paralyzing fear claiming him.

_Just don’t let it. You’re safe._

But rationalizing never helped. His body did what it wanted.

“‘S fine.” Jack sniffled, crumpled the blood-crusted tissues into a ball and aimed at the trashcan under the desk. He missed.

“No, I want to tell you.”

Jack looked at him, turning attentive. “Okay.”

Brock dropped his gaze; it would have been easier if Jack was distracted with something else. But at least he wasn’t shivering anymore.

“I once woke up with a dick up my ass.” He made it sound as impersonal as he could. It was a little stupid; it was _ages_ ago, he should’ve gotten over it.

“Name?” Jack inquired quietly.

“Easy there, avenger.” Brock smiled bitterly. “He died in Vietnam.”

“Shame.” Jack sighed. “I don’t have to stay the nights.”

Brock’s eyes were still fixed on his knees when he whispered, “I feel safer when you do,” like it was a secret.

Because it was.

 

\--

 

Brock sits up in his bed with his head in his hands, his phone beside him. His fingers crook and slide higher to pull at his hair. The phone is still silent.

He drops his hands and lights the screen up. Nothing.

He sighs and pushes himself up. He grabs a bottle from a nightstand, shakes out a pill, and swallows it dry.

In the hall, he hesitates before reaching for Jack’s leather jacket. It’s heavy in his hand and even heavier on his shoulders. He’s surrounded by the smell of leather with a hint of sandalwood he remembers from pressing his face into Jack’s neck. He slides his hands into the pockets, half expecting to find something, but he grabs at air. He remembers Jack’s personal belongings like keys are still in his locker where he left them.

He doesn’t get far in the Trisk; he barely reaches the elevator when he’s stopped by Jasper Sitwell approaching him from ahead. They must have watched him enter.

“You’re on a leave.” Sitwell looks him up and down, his eyes lingering on his undone hair and the jacket.

“Maybe I could be useful.”

Sitwell offers a kind smile that doesn’t reach his eyes. “We’ll call.”

He clasps Brock’s shoulder and turns him off his path. Brock shrugs his hand off but walks with him back to the main hall.

“There aren’t any rescue missions?” he asks.

Sitwell raises one eyebrow at him. “Whom would we be rescuing?”

Brock purses his lips, staring straight ahead. “His grave is empty, you know?”

Sitwell sighs. He stops at the main entrance. “Go home, Rumlow. Rest. And get ready for your psych evaluation tomorrow.”

Brock scowls at Sitwell’s back.

Great.


	3. Work

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The return of Agent Foster, because nobody asked!
> 
> (Agent Foster was first introduced in [Pretty Boy](https://archiveofourown.org/works/11839947/chapters/26726061).)

The world doesn’t wait for him to pull himself together. He’s back at work before he knows it, expected to live his life like nothing happened. He’s supposed to lead an op, but he feels as lost as he did on his first day in STRIKE.

His team gathers in the armory; three men and one woman. They’re one operative short. There are personal files of the STRIKE members considered for filling in on his desk. He’s been sitting on them for days, going through them over and over, unable to decide. Men like Jack Rollins can’t be replaced.

Hell, he hasn’t even chosen a new second-in-command yet.

He opens the cabinet that used to be Jack’s and is unlabeled now, and takes a rifle. It’s an identical M4A1 he uses, but it always feels different in his hands. It’s a psychological thing, he knows. They used to switch before difficult ops, for good luck.

This isn’t a difficult op, but the rifle has always been a reminder that Jack is watching over him.

 

\--

 

“Rumlow!”

Brock looks over his shoulder; Foster has been waiting for him outside the locker room. He rolls his eyes.

“What is it, Foster?”

He’s tired after the op. He was tired before the op, too.

He’s just tired.

Foster jogs over and falls in step with him. “Have you picked someone yet?”

“For my second?”

Foster has been hoping for that position even before Brock made commander. He has enough experience to be promoted to the commanding officer, evinces leadership skills and he’s damn good at his job. There’s only one problem; he definitely can’t be called a good man. Brock doesn’t like him, and sure as hell doesn’t trust him to watch his six.

Jack wasn’t an angel, but he was trustworthy.

“No, the new guy,” Foster says.

“Or gal.”

Foster snorts. “You’d pick a woman?”

“Maybe.”

There is one he’s considering. Maybe she’ll be better at handling Jack’s rifle than the last guy. Brock kicked him out of the team the moment he saw his filthy hands assembling the rifle like it was something he was building out of trash.

Foster rolls his eyes. “One’s enough.” He hands Brock a file. “I noticed there’s one of _ours_ you haven’t considered.”

Brock stops at the elevator and presses the button. He glances at the file in Foster’s hand and scoffs.

“Are you outta your mind? Westfahl made it to STRIKE by pure dumb luck. It’s a miracle he’s even still alive.”

“Sometimes pure dumb luck is all that counts out there.”

“Bullshit.”

The elevator doors slide open and a janitor with a cleaning cart gets off, but Brock doesn’t move, staring up at Foster. No one in their right mind would recommend Westfahl for Alpha. Brock would rather hire the janitor.

“Did he fucking pay you or what?” He drops his gaze and finally gets on the elevator.

“No.”

So it’s or what. Of course. Westfahl may not be the sharpest tool in the shed, but he’s young and he’s handsome. For some people it’s enough to look past his flaws. And this is why Foster will never make a commanding officer, not as long as Brock has a say in the matter.

“I’m trying to be helpful. This is the second time we were one short on an op,” Foster continues.

“And we did great. Operations level.”

“ _Confirmed,”_ the robotic voice replied.

Foster steps on the sill to keep the door from closing.

“Get over yourself, Rumlow.” His voice turns sharp. “You don’t like STRIKE’s best snipers because they don’t hold a rifle the way you want ‘em to, you need to think outside the box. Or you end up with a broken team. Or worse— _retired_.”

Brock narrows his eyes at him. “Fuck you, you think I don’t know what you’re doing? Where your interest in Westfahl comes from? I’ll get over myself after you get over your dick.”

Foster leans in and it takes all the willpower Brock can muster not to step back. “You got some things mixed up in that pretty head of yours.”

“Remember who you’re speaking to,” Brock snarls through gritted teeth.

Foster smirks. “A fair warning, _commander—_ Pierce hasn’t been impressed with your performance lately. So get off your high horse.”

He slams the file into Brock’s chest, Brock automatically catching it before it falls to the ground, and takes a step back. They glare at each other until the elevator doors slide close.

“Fuck,” Brock whispers.

He looks down at the file. He wishes he could kick Foster out of Alpha; unfortunately, his impeccable records make him untouchable.

The elevator stops earlier than it should. Brock braces himself as the doors open. He hates how the sight of Barton’s smiling face makes him relax.

“Rumlow,” Barton greets, stepping inside. “Ops?”

Brock nods. He leans his back against the cool wall with a soft sigh. Now what, he’s letting Foster mess with his head? If Pierce had any reservations about Brock’s performance, he’d discuss it with him. He wouldn’t _decommission_ him in the Triskelion’s elevator after hours.

Barton crosses his arms over his chest and leans against the opposite wall, mimicking Brock’s pose. “Chose a second yet?”

“Why, wanna recommend yourself?”

“Nah. I can’t really leave Delta.” There’s a note of disappointment in Barton’s voice Brock didn’t expect. “We’d have fun though.”

“An arrow guy. Exactly what my team needs.”

“I’m more than that.” Barton offers a lopsided smile.

Brock nods to himself. “You’d be a good one, though. If you didn’t live under Romanoff’s thumb.”

Barton huffs a laugh at that. The elevator stops with a soft metallic sound on the Operations Level, and they get off. They walk together for a short moment before Brock turns right while Barton continues onward.

He enters his office and switches the lights on. The bulbs come to life with the same amount of eagerness he gets out of bed with every morning. He throws Westfahl’s file on the top of dusty binders standing on a shelf and leans his shoulder against a wall with a sigh. The longer he looks at a pile of identical files on his desk, the heavier his head feels.

Screw it, he’ll take them home.

 

\--

 

If it was up to Brock, Agent Rollins would have never joined Alpha. He had even warned Commander Masters against him, but he didn’t listen. He claimed Rollins had potential.

“I thought you needed more than just potential to get on the most elite tac team in STRIKE,” Brock said bitterly, throwing his feet up on the coffee table. Masters had a nice office, nicer than Brock’s.

“Get your filthy boots off my fucking table, Rumlow.”

And nicer than his personality. Brock smirked. He liked that about Masters, in a somewhat unhealthy way.

Masters looked up at him from the cigarette he was rolling on his desk and they held a glaring contest until Brock caved in and dropped his feet on the floor. Masters went back to his cigarette.

“I have unconventional methods. I picked you for God’s sake,” he said.

Brock pouted. “I _am_ the best student to graduate the Academy so far.”

“And that’s enough since when?” Masters threw him a glance. “You were a fucking mess.”

“And you groomed me like a mama cat.”

“Damn right I did.” Masters put his cigarette in a case. “And I’m gonna do the same with Rollins.”

“Before he kills you, you mean.”

“He’s not gonna kill me.” Masters reclined in his chair and threw his feet up on the desk with a smirk. Fucking jerk. “What do you have against him? You don’t even know him.”

“I know guys like him. They never left the Academy, not mentally. They join the team, still thinking everyone else is competition.”

“That’s what the rookie training is for, to teach them teamwork.”

“Yeah, but the system’s faulty. Some never learn.” Brock leaned forward, resting his elbows on his thighs. “Come on, you read his file. You don’t want this guy on your team.”

Masters raised an eyebrow. “What’s wrong with his file?”

“Really, Masters? It doesn’t bother you at all his first psych eval results went missing? Along with the guy who was in charge of them? Or do you think it was a coincidence?”

“Bother? I’d say it intrigues me.”

Brock dragged his hands down his face. “And you called me a mess.” He looked up at Masters from above his fingers. “Reconsider it. Seriously.”

“No need, I already made up my mind.”

Brock got up with a soft curse on his lips. “You know what your epitaph is gonna say? ‘He was warned. He didn’t listen.’”

“Yours’ gonna say, ‘He was a fucking pain in the ass, thank God he’s gone.’”

Brock snorted bitterly. “Too bad you won’t live to see it.”

 

\--

 

When the alarm jolts him awake, he’s still on the couch in the living room, covered with Jack’s heavy jacket. He checks for texts after turning off the alarm, out of habit rather than he actually expects any. He sits up with a curse hissed under his breath and reaches for the bottle of pills. He shakes out the last two—one for his ankle, one for his head—and washes them down with wine he opened last night. His gaze lands on the mess of files scattered on the coffee table. He spent half the night reading them yet again and he has nothing.

Jack would say he’s putting way too much thought into it.

Well, if Jack was here, Brock wouldn’t have to think about it at all.

He blinks himself out of his half-intelligible thoughts, puts the jacket on and stands up. He slept in his clothes, so he’s good to go. He should have something other than a gulp of wine for breakfast though. He slips his hands into the jacket pockets and his fingers curl around a battered pack of cigarettes. He takes it out and looks at it. He opens it and takes one.

Breakfast of champions.

That’s what Jack used to say, anyway.

 

\--

 

Brock has a bad feeling even before he enters the conference room. Seeing Sitwell and Foster standing in the center only confirms his fears. He stands behind them, leaning his back against the wall and crossing his arms over his chest. Foster glances at him over his shoulder, and Brock responds with a scowl.

He’s hoping this is somehow about something else until the last second. Sitwell patiently waits for all STRIKE to gather in the room, watching black-clad men and women sit down in chairs and on the tables. When the chatter dies down and all the eyes rest on him, he announces Foster’s promotion to Alpha’s second-in-command.

“Sitwell,” Brock calls after him when the team approaches Foster to congratulate him.

Sitwell either can’t hear him or ignores him, so Brock’s forced to follow him out of the room.

“Sitwell, for goodness’ sake.” He falls in step with him. “I didn’t authorize that.”

Sitwell throws him a disapproving glance. “A recommendation letter would’ve been nice, but we can make our decisions without your blessing.”

“I had somebody else in mind,” Brock grumbles.

Sitwell stops with a sigh. “You should’ve recommended them, then. You had more than enough time, and we couldn’t wait any longer.” He looks Brock up and down. “Did you pick the sixth member for your team?”

“Not yet.”

“Hurry up then. Foster already made a recommendation.”

Sitwell resumed walking, with Brock following suit.

“A piss-poor one! Westfahl’s not even close to be good enough, you know that.”

“Then pick someone else,” Sitwell says sharply. “You have until tomorrow morning.”

He stops at his office and digs in his pocket for the key. He gives Brock another disapproving look. Brock clenches his fists in his pockets; they don’t always see eye to eye, but there’s usually some sort of mutual respect. He can’t sense it now.

“Pull yourself together, Rumlow,” Sitwell says in a lower, softer voice. “It’s been five weeks.”

“Four,” Brock corrects.

Sitwell looks at him like it’s not a debating point. Which, Brock must admit, it isn’t. He really needs to get a grip, because if he’s not useful to SHIELD, he’s not useful to the world. And the world gets rid of all the things it doesn’t find worthwhile.

He’s always been best, first and foremost, at survival.

He’s on his way to his own office when he notices that Jack’s door is open wide. _Not Jack’s_ , he corrects himself. Now it’s Foster’s room. He stands in the doorway, looking inside. Foster turns his way when he hears him. He offers a shit-eating grin.

“They don’t care about _your_ opinion so much anymore, huh?” He laughs.

Brock doesn’t respond, his gaze shifting from Foster’s missing teeth to Jack’s desk. His things are still there, mostly office supplies, but who knows what else he was keeping in the drawers?

Foster enters his line of sight again when he drops in the chair. He sighs loudly.

“It’s nice,” he says. “Not as nice as yours, but still.” He swivels childishly, what, given his enormous build, looks disturbing. Wrong. “It’s a matter of time till I get to sit in yours.”

“You’re still my subordinate, Foster, so better fucking watch what you’re saying.”

Foster scoffs. He reclines in the chair and throws his feet up on the desk, crumpling some papers beneath muddy boots. “Sure thing, boss. Face it though—you’re not so well-liked here anymore. Without your doting bitch to protect you, your days here are counted.”

Brock takes a step but stops himself. He needs to keep his cool; a fight with a much bigger and stronger Foster in Jack’s former office after he just received a warning from Sitwell won't help his matters any. “You did not just say that,” he hisses.

Foster grins at him like a cat that got the cream. “What you gonna do about it? Fire me?” He bursts in laughter.


	4. Work pt. II

Enormous glowing balls.

Two enormous glowing balls. Brock tried to make sense of them. He wanted to reach out and touch them; that was how he found out his wrists were strapped by his sides.

He was cold.

“I don’t like this,” he tried to say, but all his lips formed was a string of babble.

“Ahdonwaydis.” He swallowed; his mouth was dry. “Aydonwykedis!” He closed his eyes, took a deep breath. “I. Don’. Like. Dis.”

He tried to look around and see if there was anybody there that would hear him. There wasn’t. He wasn’t sure if it was good or bad.

He twisted his wrists in the straps. He couldn’t sit up. He didn’t feel his legs. All he could do was watch the soft glowing balls. The silence was so deafening he heard buzzing in his head.

He was trembling from the cold. He kept twisting his wrists. He could feel his skin chafe, but no pain.

 _Drugs_ , he realized. _I’m on drugs._

He didn’t remember taking any.

The groan of a metal door opening was so loud Brock himself groaned in protest. He craned his head to the side to see what was going on. A tall dark figure walked inside the room. Brock swallowed thickly; it was Rollins. He watched him approach, suddenly hyper aware of his heart beating in the rhythm of his footsteps.

Rollins stopped at the metal table Brock was lying on. Their eyes met, and for the first time Brock noticed Rollins’ were green. A soft metallic sound filled the room and a flash drew Brock’s gaze to Rollins’ hand, or rather to what he was holding. A knife.

 _This is how I die._ He was oddly at peace with that thought. _It’s the drugs._

He had warned Masters against Rollins, but no, of course, the commander knew better. Brock would never let him live it down once they met in Heaven.

Rollins brought the knife down. One warm hand held his arm.

“Don’t move.” Rollins cut the strap holding his wrist.

“Oh.” Brock didn’t mean to say it out loud, but he was too surprised by this turn of events.

“Are you alright?” Rollins asked, cutting the other strap.

“I’m… on something. Do I still have legs? Can’t feel my legs.”

“Yes, they’re still here.”

Rollins helped him sit up and Brock looked down at his legs dangling from the metal table. He touched them—it was an odd sensation, as if he was touching something warm and squishy that didn’t belong to him. He twitched when he felt Rollins’ hands on his ribs.

“What are you doing?” he asked.

“Checking for fractures.”

Rollins’ hands slid down his ribs, and then up and down his spine, pulling Brock into almost an embrace. He couldn’t help but lean into the warmth.

“Everything seems fine,” Rollins said. He ripped a piece of medical tape with a gauze off the small of Brock’s back. “Looks like you've been anesthetized.”

Brock shivered when Rollins stepped away.

“You’re cold.”

Rollins took off his STRIKE jacket and wrapped it around Brock’s shoulders. Brock put his arms into the sleeves. A spicy scent of Rollins’ cologne lingered on the collar. Looking at it, Brock suddenly remembered they were on a mission. They were supposed to shut down some mad scientists’ secret lab (and possibly recruit said scientists, but that was a secret mission from Hydra), but it went south. It seemed that Brock ended up as one of their test subjects.

“Where’s the rest of the team?”

“Foster’s outside waiting for rescue. The rest… they’re dead.”

He was too drugged to feel proper sadness, but something akin to it surged through him.

“Can you stand up?”

He didn’t think so, but either way he slid off the table. His legs buckled under him and his hands shot up, grabbing the closest thing to him for support. That would have been Rollins’ shirt. A strong arm around his waist held him up.

“Okay, no.” Rollins pushed him back onto the table. “I’m gonna carry you.”

He unholstered his gun and handed it to Brock who struggled to take proper hold of it. Rollins squeezed his wrists.

“Rumlow,” he said, prompting him to look up. “If we’re to get out of here, I need you to work with me.”

“I’m trying.”

“Try harder.” But he adjusted Brock’s hold. “Somebody comes at us, shoot.”

He turned around and kneeled on one knee for Brock to climb onto his back. Brock looped his arms around Rollins’ shoulders. Rollins helped him wrap his legs around his waist and held them in place with both hands. He heaved himself up and carried Brock out the door.

As it turned out, the room Brock had found himself in was only one in the long chain of laboratories filled with metal tables, medical equipment and various unknown devices. The tables weren’t always empty. Brock’s skin crawled when he saw somebody… something… that used to look like Agent Elfman, but was now horribly disfigured.

“Oh my God,” he said in a dull voice, his eyes lingering even after Rollins passed him. “Are you sure he’s dead?”

“I’m pretty sure nobody could survive such a level of mutilation. His skull’s deformed.”

Brock raised his free hand to touch his face, swaying dangerously. Rollins stopped walking.

“Don’t worry, you look normal,” he said, correctly guessing what Brock was concerned about. “Hold onto me.”

“What did they do to me?” Brock wrapped his arm around Rollins’ neck. He felt his body starting to tremble. The drugs must have been wearing off.

“You’re strangling me.” Brock adjusted his grip on Rollins. “I don’t know, I’m not exactly an expert on mad science. You look unchanged though, maybe they didn’t do anything.”

“Then why am I drugged?”

“I don’t know.”

Rollins resumed walking, but after a minute or so he stopped again. When the echo of his footsteps quieted down, Brock realized why; there was another set of footsteps, approaching from behind the door.

“Aim,” Rollins whispered.

Brock didn’t need to be told twice; he raised his terribly trembling arm.

“I don’t think I can do this,” he whispered back.

“It’s okay. No need for a kill shot, just don’t let them come close.”

The door opened, and a man in a lab coat walked in. The sight of two guys in tac gear startled him, but Brock opened the fire before he fully realized what was happening. Brock's hand was shaking, and two bullets hit the walls, but the other two sank in the man’s chest. He fell, his lab coat soaking up blood.

Rollins rushed through the room, stepping on the man’s face on his way out. The man’s howl mixed with the wet crunch of breaking bones. They heard more footsteps ahead. Rollins paused and looked around.

“Here.”

He walked over to a wheelchair and dropped Brock in it. Brock tried to adjust himself; his numb legs jerked, but not the way he wanted them to. Rollins whipped up another gun.

A group of people stormed in, some dressed in white, some in black, but didn’t have a chance to attack. It was easier to aim now that Brock had both hands on the gun, but he still missed more targets than he hit. It didn’t matter; Rollins didn’t let anyone get close, scoring a kill shot after a kill shot.

The next door led into a corridor that Brock recognized. They were close to the back exit. His eyes found the spot where he remembered Masters being shot. There were long red marks on the floor indicating he was dragged away somewhere.

“Did you see—” Brock trailed off when Rollins stopped the wheelchair. He heard more footsteps approaching. A lot of footsteps. From both sides.

Rollins cursed under his breath. They had nowhere to hide.

“Just in case,” he said, cocking his gun, “it’s been nice knowing you.”

“You barely know me,” Brock replied. His hands didn’t shake as much anymore when he aimed.

“It’s been nice knowing a part of you,” Rollins corrected. “Actually no, it wasn’t, you’re kinda a dick.”

“You’re on desk duty for that comment. If we make it out alive, that is.”

The corridor swarmed with people, most of them security guards, but Brock caught a sight of a white coat or two. He opened fire and the group advancing on him parted, diving for the walls. His aim was better this time, but he was also uncovered. He bent down in the wheelchair, but it was a matter of time until he got shot. First, he felt a searing pain in his shoulder, then on his temple, and warm blood trickled down his face. The gunshots ceased behind him and for a second his heart froze in fear that they got Rollins. But he was still hearing the sounds of a scuffle, and suddenly a body in a lab coat dropped right next to his wheelchair with several stab wounds in it. Still shooting at his adversaries, Brock grabbed the body and hauled it into his lap, using it as a human shield. Watery eyes gazed at him hazily.

“Oh, you’re still alive,” Brock said, unfazed. “Hi. I’m Brock.” He realized he was acting silly. “Don’t mind me, I’m high on your drugs.”

He pulled the trigger again, but the gun gave an empty click.

“I’m outta ammo!”

He ducked his head behind his human shield. A bullet brushed his hair. A series of gunshots came from behind, then silence. Brock slowly raised his head. The floor was covered with bodies.

“Rollins?”

He felt a pull on the handle grips when heavily breathing Rollins leaned on them. A big bloodied hand grabbed the shoulder of Brock’s shield and pushed him off. There was blood running down Brock’s legs. He thought it was his own.

Rollins handed Brock a full clip and pushed the wheelchair. It was an unpleasant ride as Rollins tried to ram the wheelchair between the bodies, or outright ran them over.

“Watch it!” Brock barked when he almost fell out.

“Sorry, commander,” Rollins grumbled. “I’d carry you, but there’s a fucking scalpel in my leg and I’d really rather not.”

“Commander?” Brock repeated dully.

“Masters is dead, so you’re the commander, no?” They finally got to the exit, and Rollins limped around the wheelchair to open the door. “But you’re compromised now, so I’m the one making decisions. And my decision is to not carry you.”

Rollins wheeled him out. Brock squinted in the bright sunlight. The air was cold enough to make him shiver. He zipped up his jacket with shaking hands.

“How are your legs?”

“Bleeding.”

Rollins looked over his shoulder. It was the first time he took a proper look at Brock since the fight in the corridor.

“Fuck,” he said. Apparently, Brock didn’t look that well. “Aren’t you woozy?”

“Maybe?”

“We’re close, look. Don’t fucking die on me now.”

Brock looked up, squinting his eyes. It turned out that the growing thrumming sound wasn’t in his head; a quinjet was slowly lowering over a big green field. There was a dark figure waving at them, probably Foster.

“I’ll try not to.”

The quinjet touched down, and a rescue team ran out, each carrying a med kit. Brock’s wounds were dressed, then he was wheeled inside. He was given a blanket, painkillers and a cup of water, which he sipped on, waiting for Rollins who was still being tended to outside. Soon he limped in and sat down across from Brock.

“We made it,” Brock muttered, watching his face. He looked weary. There was a shallow cut near the corner of his mouth that already scabbed over.

“Yay,” Rollins said dully.

“You saved my life. Why?”

Rollins looked up at him from his own cup of water. “Why?” He blinked. “You know, normal people say thank you.”

“You coulda killed me there. Stab me, or just leave me for them to turn me into…” he trailed off, the memory of what happened to Elfman flashing before his eyes. “No one would know. You’d make commander in no time.”

Jack watched him closely as if trying to determine if he was joking. He leaned in. “I joined STRIKE to save lives, Commander Rumlow. Including yours. Not to be in charge.”

Brock’s stomach sank. He had really misjudged Rollins and had been hard on him for no reason.

And Masters was dead, fuck.

“Thanks,” he murmured, looking down into his cup.

“Don’t. I was doing my job.”

The engines were brought to life, and the rest of the crew, including Foster, boarded the quinjet.


	5. Future

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wrote this with a heavy heart, and trust me, that rarely happens.

The sheets don’t smell of Jack anymore—

_Jack’s arm around his waist, his face pressed into his neck, a pleased “you smell like me” mumbled into his skin_

—but of cigarettes and Brock’s sweat. Brock gets up, wincing – his ankle still hurts – and absently checks his phone – nothing. He goes to take a shower, and when he comes back, feeling fresh for the first time in a while, he goes straight for the closet. Jack’s clothes are neatly folded on his side like always, as if nothing changed. Brock rests a hand on top of a pile of t-shirts, soft cotton dipping under its weight.

Jack liked it when Brock wore his clothes even more than he liked him naked. In the mornings, after he finally forced himself out of bed and saw Brock preparing coffee, dressed in his flannel shirt, he was all over him in a matter of seconds. But sometimes Brock would make coffee naked, especially in the summer, and then the fridge was what held Jack’s interest the most.

The coffee machine overflows and Brock turns it off with a soft curse on his lips. He makes a face when he realizes that in his reverie, he prepared two cups instead of one. He can drink two – one never feels like enough, anyway.

When he’s done, he goes to the bathroom to brush his teeth and do his hair. He slicks it back the way Jack used to wear it because it’s much faster than what he usually does. His hair is shorter anyway, so it doesn’t look the same.

He puts on his boots and Jack’s jacket, takes the pack out of the pocket and opens it. There’s the last cigarette left. He places it between his teeth. He throws a passing glance at the mirror and his heart leaps; for just a second, it feels like it’s Jack standing there. But Jack was four inches taller and ten years younger and it showed—

_“You sure you wanna waste your youth on me?”_

_“Brock, I’m thirty. It’s not that young.”_

—and try as he might, he’ll never look into Jack’s face again.

 

\--

 

The doctor gives him a scrutinizing look from above her computer screen.

“It’s been a month, Commander Rumlow. It shouldn’t hurt anymore.”

Brock shrugs. “Well, it does.”

She stands up. “Can I see it?”

He makes a face, but sits down on the couch, takes off his boot and sock and pulls his foot up. She leans in and squeezes his ankle with her fingers.

“There’s no swelling.”

“But it _hurts_. How am I supposed to save lives if I can’t fucking walk?!”

She purses her lips, turns on her heel and retrieves a bottle of pills. She hands it to him without a second glance and sits down behind her desk. The keyboard clacks as she puts it in his records.

Brock frowns at the bottle. Ten pills. That’ll last him three days. There’s no way this bitch will give him more after that. He needs to figure something else out.

He pops two on his way out of the medical bay. He enters the main hall and is about to head for the exit, when his eyes land on the Wall of Valor, the space around it empty now that the newest name on it has been there for a month. Thoughts about the Wall have been haunting him the whole day, and he knows they’ll continue to bug him if he just leaves now. It’s been years since he brought flowers – on one hand he thought it was a right thing to do, on the other it made him feel stupid, so one year he just stopped – but every anniversary he took a minute to pay his respects, like he would at an actual grave if he could bring himself to do it.

He approaches the Wall hesitantly, and he only glances at Jack’s name before focusing on one in the second top row.

_Agent A. Masters_

It’s been nine years today since he lost his first real friend, and since Jack saved his life for the first time, an event that triggered this inevitable thing between them to bloom. Every year since then, they spent a minute at the Wall, exchanging a couple of comments about how much they owed Commander Masters. It’s the first time Brock’s doing this alone. As he’s standing there, contemplating his loneliness, he senses a presence beside him, a brush of something against his arm, as if Jack’s there with him. He knows it’s his imagination, like he sometimes smells Jack’s cologne in the air, or hears his voice mumbling incoherently in another room. It’s just something his subconscious expects, so his mind fabricates it. He hasn’t yet decided how he feels about it.

He takes a deep breath and gives the Wall a slight nod. His eyes find Jack’s name once again for just a split second as he turns away to leave.

He’ll be coming here twice a year now.

 

\--

 

He’s in the middle of unpacking groceries when his phone rings. He perks up, but a look at the caller ID only confuses him. What could Dina want from him?

“Hey, Brock,” she says after he picks up; her voice’s neutral and there’s no way to tell if she’s still mad at him. “When can I pick up Jack’s things?”

Brock freezes with his hand squeezing a carton of milk in the fridge. “His… things?”

Dina sighs. “Yes, his things. They’re legally my parents’ now; Jeff and I offered to pick them up from you.”

“Right,” Brock drawls, closing the fridge and looking around.

He completely… forgot about that. It didn’t occur to him that he’ll have to sort Jack’s things, box them up and return them to his parents. He was just kind of… waiting for Jack to come home and use them again.

“I haven’t started on that yet,” he tells Dina. “Would… would the weekend be okay?”

“Yeah, no problem. We’re not in a hurry. It’s…” She sighs again. “Just one of those things that need to be done.” Brock hears her exhale; perhaps she’s smoking. It would seem Brock’s not the only one to return to unhealthy habits. “Don’t hesitate to let me know if you need help with that.”

“Sure. I’ll call you back.”

He doesn’t know how much time he spends leaning back against the kitchen counter and playing with the hem of Jack’s t-shirt he’s wearing. He doesn’t want to pack Jack’s things, doesn’t want to give his clothes away. They won’t bring Jack back to him, he knows, but they make him feel that much closer to him. As close as he can get to someone who’s dead.

He starts looking for wine only to remember he ran out and forgot to buy it. On one hand it’s a good sign alcohol isn’t a priority when he’s doing shopping, on the other, it’s getting late and he doesn’t have wine to help him sleep. He takes Jack’s whisky off the shelf that serves as a wet bar. Jack’s not gonna miss it, so he might as well. He fills a tumbler glass with ice and pours the whisky over it.

He doesn’t have whisky often. Jack would always shame him for mixing it with coke. Brock doesn’t understand how anybody can drink it neat. He usually stuck to his wine, leaving whisky to Jack. He doesn’t have coke, so tonight he’s drinking it the way Jack would. The first sip is unpleasant, burning, and makes his lips tingle, but surely he’ll get used to it.

He should pack Jack’s things starting with the most valuable ones that his family can sell or have a use of. That would be his record player; that along with all his vinyl must be worth a small fortune. He still has the player’s original box somewhere in the closet; Jack used to store various stuff in it that he thought would come in handy in the future. In reality, all of it was trash. Brock suspects even Jack didn’t know what’s in there anymore. He takes a roll of trash bags and strides to the bedroom with the tumbler glass still in hand.

He finds the flat box on the bottom of the closet. He hasn’t seen it for so long, it surprises him how full and heavy it is. Jack must have been adding to it over the years, things to forget about and never use. Brock will enjoy throwing all of it away. He sets the box on the floor by the bed and sits down beside it with his legs crossed, placing the tumbler glass on the nightstand behind him.

Inside, he finds multiple card decks that he knows aren’t full, some fussy souvenirs, unmarked CDs and even an old pair of sunglasses that was trendy maybe in the nineties. He places all of it in the trash bag. There’s also a pile of old photographs from Jack’s childhood for some reason, perhaps something his mom gave him that he never looked through. These Brock puts away, knowing Jack’s parents will want them back.

He momentarily freezes at the sight of what was hiding beneath the photographs. A small sky-blue velvet box is sitting on the bottom. He almost laughs at his reaction; it’s probably just an empty box that Jack threw in there years ago and forgot about it. But it doesn’t _look_ old; it’s not dusty, stained, nor dingy. Brock reaches for it, his fingers closing around the soft velvet – it doesn’t _feel_ old either. With his heart hammering, he opens the box.

It’s not empty.

He didn't cry when Barton told him Jack was dead, he didn't cry on his funeral, not even when he dreamt of him and woke up to the reality without him. But at the sight of a simple titanium ring something inside him breaks and his jaw starts trembling. The box falls out of his hand as he heavily leans against the bed, his attempts to regain control over his shaking body fruitless. Hot tears obscure his vision, and all of a sudden he’s unable to breathe; he takes a desperate gulp of air, and another, until he gives up fighting back the sobs that bubble up inside and his head collapses on the mattress, his hands twisting into the sheets. 

The sun’s setting when he runs out of tears. He raises his head, still choking on dry sobs, and wipes his face. He picks up the box off the floor and sits more comfortably with his back against the bed and his knees drawn to his chest. He knocks back the rest of his whisky, the ice long melted. It burns his throat and warms up his stomach, but he doesn’t feel better, not at all.

He studies the ring for a moment, turning the box around, before he plucks it out. It’s lighter than it looks, and cold. Hesitantly, his hands trembling, he tries it on. The feel of it squeezing his finger is foreign. He stretches out his arm to look at his hand from a distance.

_Jack’s fingers running down Brock’s sweaty back, wide eyes looking at him with a mixture of wonder and affection._

_“Mine,” softly spoken._

_Brock’s bright smile, his hand raised._

_“Not until you put a ring on it,” in a playful tone._

Brock could have had this. He could have had a taste of a fiancé’s life. Hell, maybe he could have had a taste of _marriage_ if there was enough time. He wouldn’t have to part with everything he had left after Jack because he’d legally inherit it. He wouldn’t be sitting on the floor, sorting his things, and staring at a ring that instead of happiness and love, symbolizes a future that he wanted and could have had but that was brutally and unexpectedly taken away from him.

What the hell was Jack waiting for?!


	6. Anger

Their relationship wasn’t perfect. Jack wasn’t an angel but an annoying sonofabitch who couldn’t be bothered to smoke outside or clean up after himself, and who constantly blocked the bathroom because he liked to read in a bath.

And Brock’s not only stress-ridden, but he has a temper, and there were days when a lone hair in a bathroom sink rubbed him the wrong way. So they actually happened to fight a lot. It was about trivial things that they didn’t even remember afterwards, but with Brock being as stubborn as he was, it could get ugly.

The worst thing about it was it was never truly Jack he was angry with. Usually, he was already angry over a botched mission or Sitwell being an asshole, or one of their teammates doing something stupid and putting them all in danger, and Jack was just there to take the hit.

It’s ironic that the first time he’s really angry because of something Jack did – or rather, didn’t do – he’s not there for Brock to yell at.

 

\--

 

The ring is put back in the velvet box and shoved inside Brock’s nightstand drawer. Brock takes a couple steps back, his eyes fixed on the nightstand and stumbles over the trash bag. He swears, regains his balance and his gaze shifts back to the nightstand.

It’s wrong, to hide it like that. It’s not his ring. He should give it back along with the rest of Jack’s things. He takes it out of his drawer, circles the bed and opens Jack’s drawer that greets him with another pile of stuff to sort.

He’s too drained for this.

He resolves to leave the velvet box on Jack’s nightstand, along with his childhood photos. He takes the trash bag to the kitchen and leaves it next to the trash compactor. He puts Jack’s record player inside its original box and packs the vinyl into a plastic bag. They’re sorted alphabetically, and he makes sure not to change the order, even though he’s aware it doesn’t matter. He leaves it all on the shelf, retrieves the trash bag from the kitchen, goes back to the bedroom and shoves it into the closet, onto the same spot the record player’s original box was occupying. He pulls on Jack’s hoodie, sits down in the middle of the bed and drinks neat whisky until his head spins.

It’s dark when he wakes up with his head pounding from both crying and booze. He shakes out a couple of pain pills and washes them down with whisky; it’s probably not a great idea, but he’s still not entirely sober and he doesn’t care. He checks his phone, but of course there are no messages – why would there be at three in the morning.

He lies on his back for a while with his stinging eyes open before turning onto his side to face Jack’s nightstand. The velvet box is sitting where he left it on top of the photographs and he reaches for it.

The neon sign outside paints the silvery-white ring purple. Brock rests the open box on the pillow beside him and curls around it.

“Motherfucker,” he whispers. “You really fucked it up.”

 

\--

 

The ring ends up inside the drawer so Brock doesn’t have to look at it until the weekend comes and Dina and her husband arrive to pick up Jack’s things. During the past couple of days, Brock managed to pack his books, electronics and some personal items. He didn’t touch anything in the closet.

“I got everything of value first,” Brock says as Jeff gathers carton boxes in his arms. “I’ll call you when I finish with the rest.”

“There’s no need,” Dina says quietly, her eyes fixed on Brock’s chest. “I’ve no idea what we’d do with them. At least they’re of use to you.”

Brock glances down. He completely forgot he’s wearing Jack’s hoodie. Putting it on every morning has become such an obvious thing he does it automatically.

He probably should wash it.

“Well, thank you, Brock.” She takes the last remaining box with the books and moves towards the door behind which her husband disappeared a moment ago.

“Wait. There’s one more thing.”

She watches curiously as he walks in the bedroom and retrieves the velvet box from Jack’s drawer. He hesitates for a second. He doesn’t want to give it away, but it doesn’t belong to him. Just like any other thing Jeff and Dina are taking with them.

He comes back to the living room and places the box on top of the one Dina is already holding. She blinks in surprise, and her face softens the moment she realizes what it is. She reminds him of Jack in that moment, the way his eyes would often go soft when he was looking at Brock.

“Oh no, I can’t take it,” she says, her gaze shifting back to him. “Please, it’s yours.”

“He never gave me that.”

“But he bought it for you. Please.” She holds out the box. “Keep it.”

Brock takes it back, unwittingly turning it in his hand. “Did you see it?”

“I helped choose it.”

Of course she did. There was only one secret Jack was keeping from her.

“When was that exactly?” he asks, voice thick.

“Last year. Right after same-sex marriage was legalized in DC.”

Brock can’t help a mirthless snort at that.

“I don’t know why he waited that long,” she says, looking at him with pity, and he decides he doesn’t like this conversation anymore.

“Doesn’t matter now,” he murmurs.

For a moment, he wants to hand the box back to her and forget it ever existed. Eventually, he puts it inside his pocket for it to haunt him for the rest of his days.

“Look, regardless,” she points at his pocket with her chin, “you’re not just some guy to us. Not just a roommate. You’re family. We all care about you.”

“Sure,” he says, unconvinced. Not because he thinks she’s lying. Maybe she means it now, but he knows how it is with declarations like that – like two old friends meeting after years, declaring they must meet for coffee and catch up one day, just to never see each other again.

 

\--

 

Brock didn’t remember what it was that triggered him. If it was something Jack said, or something he did, a gesture or a roll of his eyes. He didn’t even remember what the conversation was about exactly.

He remembered that it was fall and the sun was setting already despite the early hour; that Jack was sitting in an armchair with his feet up on the coffee table, listening to The Rolling Stones. He remembered the loud smack of the back of his hand connecting with Jack’s face, how the force of the hit threw his head back. He remembered the paralyzing terror consuming him as it dawned on him _what the fuck he had just done,_ his pulse muffling Mick Jagger’s _painted, painted, painted black_ in his ears.

He didn’t remember Jack’s reaction, if he was even looking at Jack in that moment, or at his own slightly trembling hands. He remembered that he rushed to the bathroom and sat on the edge of the bathtub for some time. He remembered that it was dark when he left the bathroom, that he was hungry and nauseous at the same time, that The Rolling Stones were still playing in the living room.

He went straight to bed, but didn’t fall asleep. He lay in darkness, listening. He heard the armchair creak when the music finally ceased, Jack’s heavy footsteps in the hallway, the bathroom door closing and the shower running. He waited, wondering if he would see Jack tonight, or if he’d spend the night on the couch, or somewhere else entirely.

The bathroom door creaked and Jack’s footsteps sounded again in the hall, approaching the bedroom. Brock sighed in relief. The door opened, and he turned his head to Jack’s dark silhouette.

“Still mad at me?” Jack asked.

Brock couldn’t find the words to explain that he wasn’t mad, not at Jack at least, so he just shook his head. Only then Jack walked inside and placed his folded clothes in the closet.

Brock watched him, feeling the cold lump in his throat slowly give way enough to say, “I’m sorry.”

“Accepted,” was Jack’s simple answer. He was still standing with his back to the bed, searching for something inside the closet.

Brock shook his head, knowing what happened wasn’t something they should just swipe under the carpet. “I swear I don’t wanna be yet another asshole who puts you through that shit.”

That made Jack pause. He turned to look at him. “‘Another’?”

Brock frowned. “You said all your previous relationships were abusive.”

The confusion on Jack’s face smoothed out. “They were.” He finally shut the closet doors, having given up on finding whatever he was looking for. He lay down beside Brock, propping himself up on an elbow. “But what on Earth gave you the idea that I was the one being abused?”

Brock blinked in surprise. He remembered that he saw the man comfortably lying before him in just his boxers and undershirt kill a person with a bare hand. It in no way meant that a man like Jack couldn’t be abused, what Brock had just proved, but it was in fact hard to imagine.

“I guess that’s what I get for being a dick for the majority of my life. You could say I deserved that,” Jack continued when Brock stayed silent. “I’ve been working on that, of course. I’m not like that anymore. And you don’t have to be either. We can see to that.”

“I won’t be.” Brock swallowed thickly and corrected himself, “I’m not.”

He didn’t wanna be a _punishment_ for Jack’s shameful past. And he wished he could say it never happened again.

 

\--

 

The living room feels empty with Jack’s things gone. There’s a big rectangular spot among the dust on the shelf left after the record player. The bookshelf is completely bare. The silence’s ringing in Brock’s ears.

He turns on the TV, but the never-ending stream of commercials annoys him so he switches it back off. He decides to retrieve his laptop from the bedroom – if there’s nothing interesting on YouTube, he can listen to his own music.

When he enters the room, his eyes land on the closet and he changes his plans. He gets the unmarked CDs from the trash bag and sits down at his laptop with a glass of whisky. He inserts the first off the top into the drive.

It turns out to be an old playlist Jack would listen to in his car. Brock suddenly remembers the CDs from his old Chevy Beretta. He must have thrown them in the box after selling it and forgot about them.

Brock hits play. The familiar notes make him snort, but there’s no mirth in it.

What were the odds that the first song on the playlist would be “Paint It, Black” by The Rolling Stones?

He sits back, letting the music fill the silence and fishes the velvet box out of his pocket. He opens it and stares at the ring.

Can he really blame Jack for having doubts? Their relationship wasn’t all they wanted it to be. Fuck, Brock wouldn’t marry himself.

He shuts the box and throws it inside the desk drawer. He takes a gulp of whisky with a wince – he still finds the taste horrible – and leans his head back with his eyes closed.

_I see a line of cars and they're all painted black  
With flowers and my love both never to come back…_

 

\--

 

“How did this happen?” The doctor asks as she dresses the stitched up wound above his collarbone.

Brock would shrug if he was allowed to move his shoulders. “I was distracted.”

“You’re lucky it wasn’t your neck.”

“I’m not so sure about that,” he mutters.

She pierces him with her gaze and he smiles to soften his words. Hopefully she’ll think it was a joke. She doesn’t say anything, just walks to the medicine cabinet and retrieves a bottle of pills, a larger one than the last time. Brock can’t hide his smirk when she hands it to him, and she notices.

“They won’t help you,” she mumbles.

“Excuse me?” he asks, unsure if he heard right.

She goes behind her desk before looking up to meet his eyes with a serious look. She nods at the bottle of pills in his hand. “Not for your kind of pain. You won’t find the cure here. But I can recommend someone.”

“For my stitched up shoulder?” Brock raises his eyebrows. “What can you recommend, acupuncture?”

She takes a business card out of her purse and hands it to him. Brock scoffs when he sees the word “psychotherapist”.

“Is this a fucking joke?”

“I’ve had patients like you, commander, medicating themselves with painkillers despite not being physically hurt.”

Brock gestures at his fresh dressing. “I _am_ physically hurt.”

He tears the card in half and leaves it on her desk before leaving her office.


	7. The Winter Soldier

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here be the explicit chapter.

Brock sat in an armchair, watching Jack light a fire. Once he was done, he backed out to sit at Brock’s feet.

It wasn’t that weird when he did that with the whole team present, and there was nowhere else to sit. Even then, the guys made fun of him, calling him Brock’s loyal dog, and then continued to make puppy jokes. It was all in good nature, or so Brock liked to think. At least Jack didn’t seem bothered by any of it, and would even smirk if a joke was particularly funny.

There was one time, though, when Brock heard the words “doting bitch” out of Foster’s mouth. It wasn’t that bad an insult, both Brock and Jack heard the guys do worse. But that particular time, Foster was unaware Brock was listening, and he never dared say anything like that to their faces. He later suffered an accident with a badly aimed grenade. Officially, nobody knew where the grenade came from.

But now, they were alone, and Brock’s armchair wasn’t the only one to sit in. There was something submissive in Jack’s choice to sit on the floor by Brock’s feet that made mixed feelings surge through him. It made him want to twist his fingers into Jack’s hair, to press his head against his thigh, like he _was_ a dog – _his_ dog. It was strange, and Brock wasn’t sure if he liked it.

“They’ll never stop making fun of you if you keep doing that,” he said, his hands gripping his thighs instead.

“I don’t care,” came Jack’s calm response. “I like it here.”

A loud crackle brought Brock’s attention to the fire for a moment before his gaze returned to the back of Jack’s head.

“When did you first realize,” he asked, his voice significantly lower and a little rough, “you were in love with me?”

It felt surreal to ask him just like that, but Brock found he couldn’t ignore the clear signals anymore. He didn’t want to.

“When I saved you from becoming somebody’s deformed science project,” Jack replied without hesitation. No denying or false explanations; just admitting something they were both aware of for a while, but didn’t address until now.

Brock raised his eyebrows. “We barely knew each other then. Hell, you called me a dick.”

“Yeah.” A corner of Jack’s mouth raised. “But after it was all over, I realized I was ready to die for you there. Call it a stupid crush on the most handsome man I’ve ever seen.”

Brock didn’t say anything to that, a little taken aback. He was only ever openly complimented on his looks by drunk women old enough to be his mother, and by men who weren’t as nice as Jack, but those he didn’t want to think about.

“When did you?” Jack asked when the silence between them prolonged.

Brock’s first urge was to laugh and lie, something along the lines of, “you must’ve misunderstood something.” But it wouldn’t be fair. What did he have to lose? Nothing, and so much to gain.

But instead of answering the question, he huffed a nervous laugh. “Wow, am I that obvious?”

Jack turned his head to look at him. “Wait, no, I was asking when did you realize I was in love with you, but I like where this is going.”

His face was expressionless, but inside he was fighting laughter, Brock knew. Jack was smart, smarter than he let off, and Brock realized he just got played.

“No, you weren’t,” he said, his voice thick with amusement. “But fine, I ain’t telling you then.”

“No, no, do go on.”

Jack rested his head against Brock’s thigh, and Brock never thought he’d be weak for a gesture like that. His hand was stroking Jack’s stubble before he knew it.

“Remember that shithole in China?”

Jack frowned. “But nothing happened there. You got shot and slept for ten hours.”

“Exactly.”

Brock didn’t elaborate, and Jack didn’t ask further, though surely he didn’t understand what was so special about it. But his features smoothed out, and they sat like that in silence, with Jack’s head against Brock’s leg and Brock’s hand on Jack’s cheek, until the extraction team came for them.

 

\--

 

Foster was the first to notice, or maybe only the first to point it out. It didn’t matter – what mattered was that it remained lost on Brock until somebody else brought attention to it.

Bad intel was to blame for the situation they found themselves in. SHIELD sent a standard tac team to a base that turned out to be heavily guarded, and even if Collins managed to hack their security cameras and communicators, they’d still be vastly outnumbered. Some heads would roll for this, and Brock would rather it wasn’t his team’s.

It was a miracle they weren’t yet found out in the room they barricaded themselves in. They hid behind a desk on which Jack set up his rifle to guide the door.

“What now?” Foster asked with an accusing note as if it was somehow Brock’s fault.

“I’m open to suggestions,” Brock retorted.

“How about we let one of them shoot you, and your own personal Winter Soldier will take care of the rest.” Foster glanced at Jack.

Brock was too taken aback by the comparison to respond right away.

“How about I shoot you instead,” Jack said in a dead voice without tearing his eyes away from the door.

“I don’t see how that’d help.”

Jack shrugged. “Makes sense to me.”

Brock gestured for him to calm down. Jack disliked Foster from the start – granted, he seemed to dislike his every teammate in the beginning, but only his antipathy to Foster stuck. Brock absolutely didn’t blame him, but he needed those two to act civil during an op – they could fight after hours.

“That’s a good idea, actually,” he said. “Collins, send a distress signal. We’re calling in the Asset.”

 

\--

 

He saw it for himself on their way back. Jack sat across from him in the van, as was his habit, and it so happened the Asset sat beside him. The resemblance was striking, and Brock couldn’t believe he hadn’t noticed it before. Both had not only buff bodies and long brown hair but also identical frowns on their faces. They sat in the same position, with their legs slightly parted and hands curled on their thighs; Jack’s fingers were bloodied as was the Asset’s metal arm.

Jack not only looked like the Asset; he was to Brock what the Asset was to Pierce. Brock knew he could order him to kill anybody in the van – maybe besides the Asset – and he’d do it. He’d turn on his own teammates with no hesitation just because Brock told him to.

Jack looked up at him from where he was studying a tiny hole in his fingerless glove and his frown smoothed out. He didn’t smile – hardly ever did – but there was a soft look in his eyes when they met Brock’s, similar to the one the Asset stared at Pierce with. Heat pooled low in Brock’s stomach; never before had he wanted to have Jack so much, to claim him. To grab him and throw him on the ground at his feet where was his place.

A corner of Jack’s mouth raised slightly as if he knew exactly what Brock was thinking about. Perhaps some of it was showing on his face. He quietly cleared his throat and looked away, pretending he wasn’t staring, but only for a moment.

When he looked back, Jack was again focused on his gloves as he was taking them off. Red fingers contrasted with his fair palms. Fingers of an artist as some people said – long and thin. Like the Asset’s. Brock wondered if the same people would call killing an art.

There was one significant difference between those two though. The Asset had no choice; he was a wild animal brainwashed into obedience, expected to snap at any time. A wolf, captured and tortured until it behaved. Jack chose him. Unlike a dog, despite what their teammates said; more like an independent cat whose trust and respect had to be earned.

Two significant differences, Brock corrected himself as he watched Jack put the black Teflon mask back on the Asset’s face.

 

\--

 

Jack smiled nervously when Brock combed his fingers through his hair so it was no longer slicked back but falling more loosely around his face, but he didn’t open his eyes.

“What are you doing?” he asked.

“I told you it’s a surprise.”

Brock took the Asset’s mask and covered Jack’s face. Jack was frowning by the time it was secured around his neck, but Brock didn’t let him open his eyes, not yet. He took a step back to appreciate the view. It punched the air out of his chest, Jack wearing nothing but that mask, sitting on their bed, _ready to comply_.

“You can open your eyes now.”

Jack did, and reached up to touch the mask, though he must have already known what it was. He looked up, his eyes filled with reproach. Not expecting such a reaction, Brock mirrored his frown.

“What’s the matter?”

“What’s this, some kinda roleplay?” The venom in Jack’s voice was like a slap to the face. “You want me to pretend to be _that thing_ now?”

Brock cursed under his breath. Jack had never called the Asset a thing.

Brock never knew him to be jealous.

He stepped in between Jack’s legs and cupped his face with both hands. “No. Not a roleplay. This has nothing to do with him, and everything to do with you and what the mask represents.”

The reproach in Jack’s eyes shifted to confusion and just a bit of distrust.

“Compliance,” Brock explained. “You’d do anything for me, wouldn’t you?”

Jack’s frown smoothed out, and he nodded. An overwhelming feeling of pride rushed through Brock when he thought the Asset had to be brainwashed to agree, had to be _forced_ , while Jack _wanted to_ follow his command. It made heat pool in his lower abdomen better than anything else.

The half-face mask had one drawback that he should’ve foreseen but hadn’t: it blocked the access to Jack’s mouth and neck, which was Brock’s favorite part of his body to torment. He pressed a kiss to the mask instead, where Jack’s lips were hidden, just to see what that would be like. It was a good thing he had rubbed it with an antiseptic before he ‘borrowed’ it; who knew what that thing had been in contact with.

It wasn’t any different from kissing any other object. The Teflon was cool and unyielding under his lips, but it thrilled him how Jack went along with it, tipping his head back like he wanted to return the kiss.

Brock pulled away and motioned for him to lie down with a sharp nod of his head, and then straddled his hips, feeling Jack’s half-hard cock against his own through the fabric of his cargo pants. He was fully clothed and planned to stay that way, to make who was in charge even more apparent.

He ran his hands down Jack’s chest, thinking how he’d love to see him in the Asset’s full tac suit; the image of all that leather, straps and buckles hugging him tightly made his cock strain against the crotch of his pants. But it was risky enough to smuggle out just the mask; Brock didn’t know how he’d explain himself if he was caught with the suit. He leaned down to close his mouth around Jack's nipple and rubbed it with the tip of his tongue. It earned him a well audible hitch in Jack's breath. Brock felt Jack's cock grow in between their stomachs. He pulled away just enough to be able to look into Jack's eyes. His dilated pupils, swallowing him hungrily, and the top of his cheeks already red let on how much he was into being under Brock, left on his mercy.

Luckily for him, Brock was very merciful.

“Any special requests?” he asked, his fingers playing with Jack’s other nipple lazily, almost as an afterthought.

Jack’s only answer was to stare back. He acted like the Asset would – _an_ asset, Brock corrected himself, Jack’s own version. It was satisfying, how easily Jack fell into his role once he was assured it was still about him and only him.

Brock bit his lip as his fingers skimmed down over Jack’s ribs and paused at his hip, gripping hard. “You can tell me if you want anything.”

But all an asset wanted was to please his handler, and so Jack’s raspy answer was, “Use me the way you love the most, commander.”

Brock swallowed down the groan that threatened to fall from his lips and leaned in to kiss the mask open-mouthed, tasting antiseptic. Jack went along, pushing his face up, breathing in little aborted gasps, until Brock’s teeth were grazing the Teflon, and it glistened with spit. Brock pulled away and stared down, wondering if Jack also licked the mask from the inside in his neediness to kiss.

Brock got off Jack’s hips. He retrieved lube and a condom from his drawer. All it took was his commandeering look for Jack to bend his legs in his knees and open them wide.

Brock opened him up with a slick finger, then two. Jack just lay there, taking it, until Brock curled his fingers and brushed the bundle of nerves inside. Jack jerked with a choked moan, arching his hips up for more. Brock took his time working a third finger in, and then fucking them in and out of Jack’s ass, stretching his entrance, before curling them again to touch his prostate. Jack’s arms were lying on the mattress, unmoving, his knuckles only slightly bent. His breathing was coming out ragged as he rocked his hips against the fingers inside him. Brock was hardly helpless, but Jack was stronger than him, and he _could_ grab his wrist, throw him, pin him down, and take just what he wanted and how he wanted. But he _didn’t_ , and he _wouldn’t_. He fully gave himself away to Brock, and would take any torment Brock had in store for him.

That deserved a reward.

Brock pulled his fingers out and wiped them on his pants. Jack raised his head, staring up at him with eyes wide, pleading and _desperate._ What seemed to placate him was the sound of the condom package being ripped open, of all things.

The condom was for keeping things cleaner more than anything else; neither liked to deal with the mess afterwards. Brock rolled it down his cock and lubed himself up generously before sliding in. He crawled over Jack’s body until they were face to face. Jack tipped his head back again, pulling his chin up as if begging for another kiss. His neck strained, and his throat would be exposed if it wasn’t hidden behind the straps holding the mask in place. Brock groaned, feeling Jack’s muscles twitch around his cock as they got used to the stretch, and twisted his hand into his hair.

“My asset,” he murmured, and Jack agreed with a whine. “All—” He pulled out and rammed back in, feeling his open zipper catch on the skin of Jack’s thighs. “—mine.”

Jack’s legs wrapped around his hips, his heels pushing at the small of Brock’s back, forcing him to slide even deeper. He finally moved his arms, his biceps flexing as he reached for Brock’s shoulders and dug his blunt nails in. Brock let these arms distract him for a minute. He liked thinking about their strength when he had Jack spread on his cock, liked to remember what a capable, dangerous creature he had in his grasp.

He fucked Jack with steady, deep thrusts, and like with everything, Jack went along until he didn’t, forcing a faster speed on him. He was bracing himself on his elbows now, forehead resting against Brock’s, his face bright red, choking on needy sounds that went straight to Brock’s cock. Brock had no reason not to give to him what he wanted, and fucked into him with brutal jerks, barely able to catch his breath.

Jack arched up, his head dropping back against the pillows. His whole body tensed up, his muscles tightening around Brock’s cock milking his orgasm out of him.

Brock was still riding it out when Jack suddenly thrashed, clawing at the mask, his chest raising as he struggled to fill it with air.

“Shit!”

He ripped the mask from Jack’s face none too gently and Jack took a desperate gulp of breath. Brock cupped his face, sticky with sweat and saliva, and chased his glazed over gaze until their eyes finally locked, Jack’s pupils twitching as he focused them on Brock.

“You with me?” Brock asked, pressing his thumb just underside Jack’s lips, swollen and bloodied. “Shit, I’m so sorry.”

Jack let his eyelids fall close with a little smile. “Don’t,” he breathed out. “I loved that.”

Brock sighed in relief. He rolled off the condom, knotted it and threw it in an awaiting waste bin. He lay down beside Jack, stretching his body blissfully, and reached for the carton box on his nightstand. He drew a couple of tissues and dumped them onto the mess on Jack’s stomach. Jack rolled onto his side to face him, wiping his come off his skin.

“So you like the mask?” The mask that Brock hopefully didn’t ruin.

“I guess,” Jack replied after a while. “But what I loved most about it was you. How you looked at me. You never wanted me like that before.”

Brock pulled his lip in between his teeth, not knowing what to say. He’d never not be confounded by Jack’s unguarded candor.

He should’ve said that he loved him, but for some reason he didn’t. Not then, not after.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Is kissing through a mask a kink? Because I developed it back when I was in the Deadpool fandom ^^'


	8. Bargaining

Brock looks into the dark corridor, listening in. There are few people present in the Ideal Federal Savings Bank at night, but he needs to be careful. Being seen might cost him even his life.

He wishes he cared, but his life resembles this corridor he’s walking. Darkness is all he sees before him; no ending, no hope. He shakes his head like he wants to shake off these thoughts; he’s here to look for the light.

He knows the route by heart so it’s easy to walk blindly. He knows what to do, where to turn to find his way. Another allegory for his life. If only he knew his final destination.

He grips the half-face mask tighter when he reaches the door. It’s too dark to see anything through the bars, but he’s there, Brock can sense him. Perhaps he’s even looking. How well can he see in the dark?

Brock unlocks the door with his shoulders tense. He’s armed, but if the Asset decides he doesn’t like what Brock’s doing, a gun won’t help him. But there’s a thrill running down his spine, too.

 _Too attracted to danger_ , Jack used to say.

“Shut up,” Brock whispers.

“I didn’t say anything.”

The sound of the Asset’s voice surprises him. He’s not talkative; neither was Jack. Brock lights up his phone to use as a flashlight; the Asset’s sitting on a cot. The white light reflects in his arm and eyes. A light at the end of a tunnel? Perhaps.

“No, you didn’t,” Brock agrees, turning to the wall in search of the light switch.

The Asset looks less impressive in the full light. Pale, with greasy hair and tired eyes. Brock wonders briefly why he isn’t asleep. Perhaps he’s heard him coming.

Brock hides the phone and holds up the mask. The Asset looks at him questioningly, but doesn’t ask. He knows he’s not supposed to ask too many questions.

“Not a mission.” Brock approaches him in slow, careful steps. He’s behaving; it presages well. “A… preparation.”

It’s a safe explanation – this way he won’t tell anyone because there’s no need for him to discuss his mission preps. Brock stops right in front of him, but hesitates.

“Do you remember me?”

The Asset always remembers only Pierce. He doesn’t work often enough with anyone else for his recollection of them to be crucial. He remains silent, thinking it safer than any answer. It’s intriguing, considering he usually gets punished for ignoring a question.

“It’s alright either way,” Brock assures him. “I’m just curious.”

That, and if the Asset doesn’t remember, he can’t tell on him. But he still doesn’t answer. He’s calm, but alert. He doesn’t trust Brock. It’s fine with Brock, as long as he dies quick. He’s not looking forward to bleeding out on the floor for hours before he’s found by some Hydra tech or worse. He wouldn’t know how to explain his presence in the Asset’s vault in the middle of the night.

He looks at the door. Maybe he should just leave. But he hasn’t come all the way down here just to give up.

_Too attracted to danger._

_Oh, shut up, Jack, you’re dead. You don’t get to judge me anymore._

He brings his attention back to the Asset who’s been watching him all this time, unblinking. Brock opens the mask, raising his eyebrow. The Asset doesn’t move and lets him put the mask on his face and secure it around his neck. Brock combs his hair back with his fingers, then takes off his STRIKE jacket and Jack’s long-sleeved compression shirt. The jacket he drops on the cot, the shirt he hands to the Asset.

“Put it on.”

The Asset obeys with no hesitation, and the glints of light on his arm disappear under the black fabric. Something’s still off – the eyes are the wrong color. Brock forgot about this detail; he wishes he was more prepared though admittedly the sole idea of coming here is so crazy he’s decided it’d be best to act on it spontaneously.

“Close your eyes.”

He goes to switch off half of the lights. Now it’s almost perfect – in the dimness, the Asset’s features aren’t so sharp and Brock can imagine it’s someone else’s face hidden under the mask. He stands between the Asset’s open legs, cups his face and tips it back to have a better look. He runs his fingers through his hair.

“Hold me.” He sees the Asset’s eyelids twitch. “No, keep your eyes closed.”

The Asset slowly raises his hands and grips Brock’s hips. Brock rolls his eyes, but it’s his own fault for giving unclear instructions. He takes the Asset’s wrists – one is harder and colder than the other, but he tries not to focus on that – and pulls them behind his back.

“Like that.”

The Asset gets the concept and rests his flesh hand on the small of Brock’s back. Brock doesn’t feel the metal and realizes the Asset keeps it away from his bare skin on purpose. His thoughtfulness is more surprising than the fact he hasn’t snapped yet. Must be because he’s freshly wiped.

“Say, ‘You’re too attracted to danger. It’ll get you killed.’ No, whisper it.”

A small frown shows up on his face. “You’re too attracted to danger. It’ll get you killed.”

The sound of his soft, muffled whisper is close enough to Jack’s, and it makes Brock smile.

“But maybe not tonight, huh?” he murmurs. “You’re a lot like him. Could use some sun though.”

He leans in and wraps his arms around the Asset’s shoulders. The scent of Jack’s deodorant mixes in with the smell of the Asset’s dirty hair, but it’s the closest he’ll ever get to be in Jack’s arms, and for Brock it’s good enough.

“Fuck, I miss you,” he whispers. “Why did you have to leave me? We had plans for fuck’s sake. Who does that?” He feels the Asset tense. “Don’t answer that.”

He closes his eyes with a sigh. For a second there, he really forgot whom he’s with. He swallows thickly as his mouth goes dry, but it doesn’t help much.

“Tell me you love me.” He feels his cheeks burn; knowing the Asset won’t remember doesn’t make asking for it any less embarrassing.

“I love you.”

The rough whisper, the familiar smell, the strong arm around him bring that feeling like he’s about to cry, but his eyes remain dry. He lets out a quiet snicker at the unexpectedness of it.

“I know,” he murmurs.

He’s always known. He knew before Jack even told him.

His amusement doesn’t last. He lets go with difficulty, but he got what he wanted. The Asset won’t magically turn into Jack, no matter how much Brock wants it to happen. He pushes the Asset’s hands off him and steps back.

The spell isn’t broken right away. The Asset still looks a lot like Jack with his too long hair styled the same way and his face partially covered. Brock realizes there’s a good chance he’ll never look at him the same way again, but no matter the consequences, and how pathetic what he’s just done might be, he doesn’t regret a second of it.

He orders the Asset to take off the shirt, and he pulls off the mask himself. He’ll have to put it back in storage. He gets dressed and walks to the door, switching off the lights along the way.

“The prep’s over,” he says over his shoulder. “Go to sleep.”

He’s locking the door when he hears the Asset say, “Your uniform.”

“What?”

“I remember your uniform. You’re STRIKE.”

Brock stares through the bars at the darkness inside until he realizes it’s the answer to the question he asked earlier. He nods. “Yeah.”

He sits in his car parked near the bank for an hour afterwards. He’s staring at the entrance with his eyes unfocused, The Rolling Stones playing in the background. His teeth are worrying his lower lip until the skin breaks and the taste of blood fills his mouth.

 

\--

 

“Welcome back, sir. The surgery was successful.”

Brock frowns at the face hovering over him. “What surgery?” His voice is rough from disuse.

“You were shot.”

Memories of the mission rush to him as his doctor attaches a couple of machines to him. He must have blacked out during extraction. He hopes one of the machines administers morphine; the pain in his right shin is breaking through the drug-fueled fog in his mind. The doctor offers him a tight-lipped smile and leaves the room.

He isn’t left by himself to wonder about the mission for long; soon, he hears rushed footsteps and raised voices approach the door. He arranges himself carefully to face that way.

The door opens and in walks Sitwell. His face is perfectly neutral, but Brock can tell he’s displeased. His doctor stands in the doorway, watching both of them with visible concern.

“What the hell, Rumlow? Running straight into the line of fire?”

Brock scowls. “I was playing decoy.”

“Commanders don’t play decoy.”

“I’m trying to protect my people as much as I can, surely you can understand that.” Brock doubts it as Sitwell usually works alone; he just wants to throw it in his face. “Besides, Barton was covering me, so it was sorta his fault.”

“And it’s not just this mission,” Sitwell continues as if Brock said nothing. “You’ve been acting downright _suicidal_ before, it’s just the first one you actually got hurt.”

Brock scoffs. “According to who?”

“Agent Foster.”

“What does he know? He’s been on disciplinary desk duty.” If Foster thought he can disrespect a superior officer, even a dead one – _especially_ a dead one – without suffering any consequences, then he was sorely mistaken.

“Your team reported to him.”

Brock swears in his thoughts. Mercer said she’d have to report him when she was patching him up, but he was hoping she’d talk directly to Sitwell. Foster surely made it sound much worse than it was.

Sitwell leans down and drops his voice. “I’m sorry for you. I really am. But you’re way out of line. I already warned you before, and I won’t do it again.”

Brock’s hands close into fists under the covers as he glares back at him, not appreciating being threatened while lying in a hospital bed.

“That’s enough, Agent Sitwell.”

Everyone freezes at the sound of the new voice. Brock looks towards the door. Behind the doctor, who has her mouth slightly open as if she was about to intervene, stands Alexander Pierce.

Sitwell straightens up. “Secretary.”

The doctor moves aside to let him in. He’s looking at Brock, and smiling, but there’s also something melancholic in his face.

“May I speak with Commander Rumlow alone?”

Sitwell exchanges glances with the doctor before shuffling outside. She closes the door behind them and silence falls, disturbed only by the hum of working apparatus. Brock relaxes his hands. Pierce’s serene demeanor shouldn’t be as calming as it is.

“Whatever Foster said musta sounded grave if it alerted you, sir.”

Pierce’s still smiling as he turns to inspect the infusion pump. “Not any more than anything else I’ve heard about you in the past weeks. I should have paid you a visit much earlier.” He dials down the administration of morphine to Brock’s veins. “I hope you don’t mind; I’d rather you listened to me with your mind clear.”

“Of course, sir.”

Pierce sits down on the edge of his bed, and Brock props himself up on his elbows to see his face better. But Pierce isn’t looking at him; he’s facing the door.

“We suffered a tremendous loss,” he says sadly. “Jack Rollins was a good agent. Very dedicated to our cause.”

Suddenly, Brock’s unable to look at Pierce anymore. He fixes his gaze on a point above his shoulder.

“I don’t blame you for feeling the way you do,” Pierce continues. “But Brock, we can’t afford to lose you, too.”

“I know, sir,” Brock says in a rough voice.

Pierce finally faces him; he’s not smiling anymore. “Don’t forget what I taught you. The pain you feel now is part and parcel of life. Don’t let it weaken you. Use it to make yourself stronger.”

He’s looking at Brock as if he’s expecting him to nod and act like a good leader should. And Brock wants to – he’s never wished to disappoint him. But Jack’s death turned out too difficult for him to deal with, and somewhere along the way he lost himself.

“I don’t know how,” he whispers.

There is the slightest shadow of a smile returning to Pierce’s face, a sign that he’s not judging him, but willing to help.

“Think about Agent Rollins. Was he your weakness or your strength?”

Brock considers it.

“Both,” he replies after a while.

Pierce smiles for real this time. He gets up.

“He died for this world, Brock. Don’t let it go to waste.” He dials up the morphine. “Rest now.”

After he leaves, Brock feels more peaceful and determined than he did in the past few months.


	9. Stars

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter contains a quite graphic and violent rape attempt, so if you'd rather avoid reading it, you can skip this chapter altogether.

Brock is sent on a leave with another bottle of prescription pills and a crutch around Christmas. Dina calls him with an invitation to spend it with her family, and his cracked Tibia is a good enough excuse to decline. She doesn’t try to convince him, further reassuring him that her invitation isn’t genuine. He’d stand out, and his presence would make the lack of Jack’s even more apparent than it already must be.

He spends Christmas getting drunk on the couch with his right leg propped up on the coffee table and eating cold pizza leftovers. He falls asleep there and is woken up in the morning by a smell of coffee. He smiles and calls out for Jack, thinking it’s him, until he looks over to see his kitchen empty and realizes the smell was nothing more than a dream.

Not his proudest moment.

He spends New Year’s like it’s just any other day, trying not to think about how he’s entering the new year without Jack. He gets back to work in January, but he’s put on desk duty until the internal damage the bullet caused fully heals.

Sitting on his ass all day at home was bad enough, but the desk job drives him crazy. Foster smirks at him every time they pass each other on a corridor, and Brock can’t shake off the feeling that he lost at something against him.

A week into his desk duty, Brock decides he’s desperate enough to beg Sitwell for an off the books job, so he drags himself to his office. Sitwell is talking on the phone while simultaneously trying to read an e-mail, and normally Brock would leave and come back later, but this time he stands at Sitwell’s desk, treating him to an unblinking stare until he makes a face and ends his conversation.

“Don’t you have reports to proof-read, Rumlow?”

“Good morning to you, too,” Brock says, trying not to scowl. “Already did that.”

It’s a lie; there are at least ten mails with reports he hasn’t even opened, but he’s not a goddamn editor, and reading about stuff _his_ team gets up to under _Foster’s_ command is more than frustrating.

Sitwell reclines with his arms crossed on his chest. “What do you want, then?”

“My leg’s fully functional.” Brock moves it left and right to demonstrate. “Surely there’s something else I could be doing instead?”

“It’s not for me to decide, talk to your doctor.”

“For fuck’s sake, Sitwell, I’m losing my mind sitting behind the desk all day,” he snaps. “Do you want me to go cray-cray?”

Sitwell scrutinizes him, unimpressed. “I think you’ve already gone… ‘cray-cray.’”

Brock rolls his eyes. “Come on, man. Just one little mission to raise my spirits? Don’t make me beg. I’ll owe you.”

“Another psych eval is what I should send you on.” Sitwell sighs. “But fine. There is something.” He leans in. “Foster is accompanying the Asset on a mission. You can tag along.”

Fucking Foster… Well, beggars can’t be choosers. Brock nods.

“And one more thing… If you get yourself killed, I swear I’m gonna bring you back and kill you myself.”

Brock frowns. “Can you do that?”

“Don’t try me, Rumlow.”

 

\--

 

Another shiver crawls over Brock’s skin when cold wind blows into his face. His thermos is empty; he drank all the coffee about an hour ago, he was so bored.

He looks sideways at Foster, spread on his stomach. He hasn’t moved an inch in the past thirty minutes, watching the town below them through binoculars.

“Can you see him?”

Foster doesn’t respond right away.

“No.”

He sounds pissed off. It must be because Brock’s acting worse than a six-year-old on a road trip. The uneventful lying on a foam pad spread on the frozen ground and waiting for the Asset lost its shine after the first twenty minutes, and Brock starts regretting asking Sitwell for this job. When he was on desk duty, he at least had something to do. Now, he’s here unofficially, and they have enough gear for only one person. Even the gun and the knife at his hip are his own.

“Can I have your coffee?”

“No.”

Whatever, Brock doesn’t want to drink from Foster’s thermos. He’s just bored. He nudges Foster’s shoulder and opens his hand.

“Pass the binocs.”

Foster makes an irritated sound, but hands Brock the binoculars. “God, Rumlow, you’re so _needy._ ”

Brock doesn’t like his choice of words, but says nothing. He presses the binoculars to his eyes and scans the town. No trace of the Asset. There’s some watering hole still opened, and a couple of drunks are pissing at the wall. Otherwise, the area is void of any human life. That’s good. Will make the cleaning after the Asset much easier.

He sighs. The Asset has a reputation of a mythical ghost, but behind it stands a group of hardworking operatives that cover his tracks. The Asset himself, well, sometimes Brock suspects he leaves tracks on purpose. Why he would though, he doesn’t know.

He’s vaguely aware of Foster watching him, but he pays it no mind, trying to spot the Asset. He was dying of boredom for over an hour, now it’s Foster’s turn.

“It’ll be a while before he comes back,” Foster says.

He’s right; the Asset hasn’t even started from the looks of it, and it’s a long way up from the town to the hill they’re positioned on.

“Hey, I left food in the car. Would you bring it?”

Brock blinks, slightly lowers the binoculars, but doesn’t look at Foster, not yet.

“I’m your fucking commander, not your errand boy,” he snarls. “You keep fucking forgetting that.”

Foster huffs. “Maybe, but I’m the lead on this mission.”

“So what, I still fucking outrank you. You’re the hungry one, bring it yourself.”

He feels movement as Foster pulls himself up to his feet with a grunt. He hears him murmur something under his breath, but lets it slide. They will never become friends; Foster will always resent him for taking the commander position before him despite being younger and less experienced, and Brock will never approve of what he gets up to with the rookies, but they usually manage to act civil on the job. Foster has been acting up ever since Jack’s death, but Brock can be—should be—above such pettiness.

The snow creaks under Foster’s boots as he walks towards their car parked about ten feet away. Brock puts the binoculars away and sits up. Now that Foster mentioned food, he starts feeling peckish as well.

The snow twinkles in the full moon that makes the night as bright as day. Brock watches the dark outline of Foster stalk to the car and back. He narrows his eyes. Foster’s holding only one small packet.

“Why didn’t you bring the whole thing?” Brock calls out.

“Why don’t you bring your own food, commander?” Foster snarls back.

Brock clenches his hands. Jack would have Foster by his throat by now. If it was anybody else, Brock wouldn’t try so hard to be patient either. It’s not that he’s scared of Foster, no matter how much bigger than him his second-in-command is. It’s that he knows Foster wouldn’t back down and having a fight while on a mission with the Asset isn’t a particularly smart thing to do. Brock didn’t become the commander for losing his temper in the field.

He’s not that hungry, but it’s something to do, so he stands up. Foster pauses midway when he sees it. Maybe he’s bracing himself for a fight, but Brock doesn’t care; he passes him and reaches the car.

The MRE case is left open on the backseat, as if Foster foresaw Brock would go there soon after, or perhaps he thought he would be back for more. Brock doesn’t wonder about it. It seems that Foster took the fruit bars for himself, so Brock takes the crackers. They won’t be heating up any meals until they’re back in the safehouse, and even then, it’s doubtful Foster will share. Maybe he’ll let Brock have a granola bar.

He hears a familiar popping sound of a silenced gunshot right after he turns around to walk back. He freezes, staring ahead at Foster, who hasn’t moved from his spot midway to their observation point. He has his gun aimed at him. Brock’s skin crawls. Was he hit? He drops his gaze where Foster’s gun is pointing. There it is: a hole just above his waistband. Dark blood glistens in the moonlight, drips down the slick fabric of his black parka, soaks into his pants and paints the snow below him red. He tries to move and his pain receptors come online. His guts burn like they’re on fire.

“You’re so dead,” he tells Foster, his voice sounding weak and from far away.

Foster is already striding towards him, his gun still drawn. Brock’s body goes into shock, and as his knees bend under his weight, his hands shoot up, grabbing at Foster, searching for help from the very person who has shot him. Foster holds him with an arm wrapped around his waist, helps him go down without hitting the ground too hard.

“What’s wrong commander? I thought you liked being shot at,” he says, calmly, but his breath is whizzing. “Sure, the brass won’t be happy that I let the Asset attack you, but there wasn’t much I could do about it, was there?”

As Brock struggles to make sense of the situation through the fog in his brain, Foster lays him out on his stomach, the melting snow soaking his cargo pants. That’s not right. He’ll bleed out faster that way.

“No,” he says, wanting to correct him.

“Shut up and I’ll let you live.”

The realization of what is about to go down creeps up on him even before Foster’s hands pull on the waistband of his pants. He throws his hands ahead, trying to crawl away, but Foster hits the back of his head with something sharp and heavy, and he blacks out for a moment.

When he comes to, Foster has him pinned down with one hand on his wrist and shins crushing his calves. Foster’s other hand pulls his pants and his underwear down to his knees, and Brock—he stiffens. He can’t move though he wants to, and a part of him thinks it’s just a dream, just a nightmare because he’s had many like this before and it doesn’t feel entirely real. He feels wetness from the melting snow with his front, his bared skin in the back is numb from the freeze, and the touch of Foster’s gloved hands on his ass doesn’t quite register. Then Foster shifts, and something metal and cold brushes Brock’s wrist. He struggles to focus his gaze on it.

Foster’s wearing something on his wrist—his arm shifts as he pulls Brock’s hips up with the other, and the moonlight illuminates a watch face. Brock recognizes the silver inwrought case, the black dial, even the font of the numbers. He barely feels the tug of pain in his wound as his body’s forcefully stretched over the anger burning in his chest.

“That’s Jack’s watch!”

Foster chuckles. “Is it? It was in my desk, so I reckon it’s mine.” He spits and Brock’s stomach turns when he feels the sticky wetness hit his asshole. “Don’t worry about the watch, commander, it’s not the only thing of his I’m gonna take.”

Brock’s been holding his breath, but now he’s panting angrily, and he struggles beneath Foster, trying to grab at the watch with his free hand. Foster reaches under him and digs his fingers into Brock’s wound. Brock howls and jerks as the searing pain whites out his vision. His ass bumps into something hot and hard. Foster moans, pressing it—his _erection_ —against Brock, rubbing, teasing himself. Brock freezes again, his breath trapped in his throat. He thinks of Jack, then the Asset. He can scream all he wants, neither will hear him. No one will help him.

“Cockhungry slut,” Foster breathes out. “It’s been a while for you, hasn’t it? With your precious Jackie biting the dirt and all. You must miss this. Was he even big enough for you, commander? Should’ve gone for me in the beginning, I’d give it to you good.”

Another wave of anger washes over Brock, burning his paralyzing fear away. He draws in a shaky breath as Foster’s finger prods at the tender flesh of his asshole, and buries his teeth in his lower lip, lets the pain of it ground him. This is not a nightmare. This is real. This is happening, Foster is playing with his ass, bad-mouthing Jack, and Brock... and Brock is letting him.

Fuck this. He’s not a twenty-year-old with barely any muscle to his body anymore. He’s more than capable of taking care of himself; he’s killed guys as big as Foster before. He’s beat Foster on the mats in the Trisk multiple times. He’s not letting this happen to him, never again.

His mind is racing, trying to find a way out. He had a gun strapped to his waist, what happened to it? He tries to look around without being too obvious, but what Foster’s doing behind him is occupying him enough not to pay attention.

His empty holster is lying in the pile of snow by his side. Foster must have gotten rid of Brock’s gun while he was blacked out. His heart leaps when he spots the handle of his tactical knife hidden behind the holster.

Foster grunts, shifts his weight onto the arm he’s pinning Brock with, crushing his wrist, and Brock chokes on a scream. Foster’s other hand grabs his ass cheek, and his torso strains as Foster pulls him backwards onto his pelvis. Hot white pain shoots up from his wound to his stomach, his lungs, his heart, but he takes it. He remembers Pierce’s teachings. Don’t let your pain weaken you. Draw strength from it.

He feels Foster’s body cover him, his hot breath tickles his neck. His skin crawls as he realizes how cold he is. His muscles tremble from the strain of being manhandled into his current position—his legs spread, ass up in the air—and if Foster wasn’t holding him, he’d collapse. He thinks he can feel his blood drip down and sink in the snow. He can’t risk reaching for the knife now, with Foster’s full attention back on him; he has to distract him.

“What the fuck, Foster?” His voice is hoarse. “Ain’t I too old for you?”

Foster lets out a surprised laugh. “I was beginning to think you were too dizzy from blood loss to mouth off.” Brock tries to ignore Foster’s hot and heavy cock spreading his cheeks and focuses on his hand inching towards his holster. “No, but you’re right. I don’t fuck old guys. But you, Rumlow—” Foster’s hand moves from Brock’s wrist to the back of his head, forcing his face down in the snow. There goes his vision. “You’re the one that got away, you know what I mean?” Brock hears him smirk. “Not for much longer.”

The frozen snow bites at the skin of his face, but he barely feels it over the cold spreading from his insides, chilling him to the bone. He scolds himself in his thoughts. He’s supposed to distract Foster, not himself. Make him talk, but don’t listen. His hand continues inching forwards though he can’t see the knife anymore. He opens his mouth, takes a mouthful of snow, lets it melt and spits it out, giving himself space to both talk and breathe.

“No,” he says hurriedly as Foster reaches under him again. “No, I don’t get it.”

He shudders from repulsion when Foster fondles his cock and balls. Foster makes a disappointed sound after a while as if he expected to find Brock hard instead of shrunken like he's trying to hide within himself.

“Your two doting bitches of course,” he snarls. “Masters never let me get too close, then there was Rollins… Now, there’s no one to protect your ass anymore—”

The rest of his words are drawn out in Brock’s scream when Foster buries his fingers in his wound again, curls and twists. Brock tries to overcome the pain, throws his arm out maybe too desperately, but his fingertips brush the holster. Foster pulls out, and Brock feels his ass crack fill with wetness. Foster’s slicking himself with Brock’s blood. One more inch and Brock’s hand closes on his knife’s handle. He lets out a breath, trying to relax, collect himself. Once he stabs Foster, he’ll have only a couple of seconds to throw him off before the initial shock of it recedes. He readies himself.

Foster stops slicking himself and Brock feels the head of his cock push against his hole when he swings his arm back and stabs him. Foster screams. Brock doesn’t know where he hit him, but he hopes it’s an important organ. He grips the handle like his life depends on it—because it does—and throws his shoulders and hips. Foster loses balance, but isn’t off him, not entirely, and Brock twists the knife to his yelps and grunts, and twists until he can’t turn his wrist any further.

“Get off me!” he barks. “Get off me and I’ll let you live!”

He has no such intention. Foster’s going down. Brock should’ve killed him long ago.

Foster’s hand is off his head and he can raise it. He can prop himself up on his elbow, turn onto his side, so he does. Foster’s gripping his arm with the knife, tries to pry his fingers open. Brock’s arm is shaking, he’s all sticky with sweat, but his hold is firm. He drags the knife up and Foster hollers in pain as Brock cuts him open.

“Let the fuck go and I’ll let you survive!” Brock rasps. It’s getting harder to talk, to breathe, he feels life pour out of him through the bleeding hole in his body, but he’ll get Foster off him if that’s the last thing he does.

Foster’s hand is still on him, but not gripping. Brock kicks his legs off him and pulls himself up to his knees, his arm bending painfully, but he doesn’t dare let go of the knife. He twists around, sees Foster curled in on himself, staring up at him with glassy eyes. Brock’s knife is buried in the left side of his profusely bleeding stomach.

“Sonofabitch,” Brock breathes.

He drags the knife up until he hits a rib bone. Then he withdraws, drops backwards onto his still bare ass. Foster tries to move away, his blood spilling on the snow. He’s rasping something, no doubt something offensive. Brock doesn’t care. He’s staring at the blood, thinking how pretty it looks on the twinkling, bright white snow.

The knife slips out of his grip and he falls onto his back, his whole body trembling. He pulls his pants up with one hand, the other pressing the wound. He thinks he should have a belt, but can’t understand why it’s important. He looks up ahead at the starry sky.

Jack loved to look at the stars. Whenever they were out at night, just the two of them or the whole team, he was always the distracted one, staring up. Brock remembers two instances of him walking into a post because of that. Sometimes, when it was warm, he and Brock would get on the roof of their apartment block, lie down on their foam pads, and stargaze for hours. It was boring to Brock, even when Jack tried to teach him some constellations. Usually, he ended up watching Jack more than the stars.

He hears the snow creaking again, but he’s not afraid. He knows it’s not Foster. He turns his head to look; behind Foster, there’s a dark figure approaching.

“Jack,” he murmurs. “You came for me. Good. Life really sucks without you.”

Jack steps over Foster, crouches by his side. He takes off a glove and touches his neck with a cool hand.

“Foster stole your watch,” Brock says softly. The night becomes darker, he can barely see what’s around him. “I killed him for it.”

He’s certain Foster’s dead; he can’t hear him breathing.

Jack touches his hand, pries it off his wound, and hisses under his breath. He takes off the hood of his parka. Light reflects in his blue eyes. Not Jack. The Asset.

“Ah, fuck.” Brock wants to turn away, but he’s too weak to move.

The Asset takes off his parka, covers him.

“What’re you doin’?” Brock slurs when the Asset’s hands worm underneath him and he’s picked up. “Jus’ leave me here, put that back on, you’ll freeze… I’m replaceable. You ain’.”

All he can see are the Asset’s eyes staring directly into his. Everything else is black.

“I love you,” the Asset says softly.

Brock’s last thought is, _Fuck, he wasn’t supposed to remember that._


	10. Depression

Brock doesn’t quite remember waking up as he walks out of the safehouse onto the hill. The sun is high in the sky, and the snow makes everything bright. There’s a familiar figure sitting in the observation point, his back turned to him. He’s dressed in a STRIKE jacket, and his gelled hair shine.

Brock sits down beside him. Jack turns his head towards him, smiles warmly. Brock smiles back.

“Took you long enough,” Jack says.

“Fuck you, I’m injured.” Brock punches his arm playfully.

Jack laughs and faces away to look at the town below them. Wind blows into their faces, playing with Brock’s hair and carrying the sound of the ocean.

Brock frowns. That’s not right. He follows Jack’s gaze, and instead of the town, there in fact is an ocean, the far away waves big and frothy. Brock almost accepts it, but his mind keeps racing. He was injured, he remembers Foster shooting him, but he’s not in any pain. He touches his lower abdomen, but doesn’t feel any wounds or scars. The safehouse wasn’t on the hill. Brock turns back and the wooden hut is gone, replaced by a black SUV.

He looks back at Jack. He’s still smiling, but looks sadder somehow.

“It’s a dream,” Brock realizes.

His vision whites out, and he feels his mind ready to wake up. He screws his eyes shut tight. He doesn’t want to wake up. He wants to stay with Jack.

When he opens his eyes, he’s back on the hill. The fragile dream held. Brock sighs in relief. Jack looks at him, never stopping smiling. It’s unlike him, Brock realizes. He doesn’t care.

Jack wraps his arm around Brock’s shoulders, and Brock leans into him. He runs his hand through Brock’s hair, down Brock’s cheek, presses his lips to his temple. Brock hums in pleasure. This is what he misses the most. The warmth. The affection no one else can give him; not the Asset, not a stranger in a club. No one will love him like Jack did.

“This is nice,” he murmurs.

He soaks Jack’s presence, the solidity of his muscled chest beneath his cheek, the rough skin of his fingertips, his breath on the tips of his hair. He looks up and watches his face, stubbled and handsome with high cheekbones and bright green eyes.

He could trade his life for this dream to last.

“Tell me something.”

“What?”

“Dunno.” Brock takes Jack’s free hand, plays with his fingers. “Wanna listen to your voice.”

Jack sighs, never much of a conversationalist. “Flour. Baking powder. Salt. Sugar. Milk. Eggs. Sift the flour, baking powder, salt and sugar together…”

Normally, Brock would punch him or pinch his thigh, but this isn’t a normal situation, so he listens to the pancake batter recipe with a smile he can’t suppress. It’s so Jack.

Jack kisses him when he finishes reciting, and Brock kisses him back, reveling in the softness of his lips and the warmth of his mouth. It feels so real, and he hasn’t been kissed in so long.

 

\--

 

He wakes up in a metal bed with his arms strapped down. He struggles, trying to sit up.

“Commander Rumlow, calm down.” A gentle voice and a gentler hand on his chest.

His doctor is smiling down at him. Brock doesn’t quite relax, but he lets her push him down onto the mattress.

“You’re at the Bank, commander. You were shot in your abdomen, but the bullet missed any internal organs. You needed blood transfusion, but you’re safe now. No reason to get agitated.”

If he’s at the Bank, and his doctor is here, it means she’s Hydra as well. Huh. It makes sense.

“Why are my arms tied?”

“It’s just a precaution, so you wouldn’t move too much and damage yourself any further. I don’t think it’s necessary now that you’re awake.” She gently unstraps him. His skin’s hot in the places where the leather straps chafed it. “You’ve been feverish and barely responsive for a couple of days.”

“I don’t remember,” Brock admits.

“Understandable.” She turns back to address someone. “He’s awake.”

Brock props himself up on his elbows, slowly, so the doctor doesn’t push him back down. He’s lying in a vault, similar to the one they keep the Asset in. Sitwell is walking towards him from the door with his lips pursed.

“Can I leave you alone with him?” the doctor asks.

Sitwell only glares at her. She half-shrugs in response and strides out of the vault. Sitwell shifts his attention to Brock.

“What did I tell you about trying to kill yourself?”

“Wasn’t my fault,” Brock says maybe too harshly, but Sitwell’s recent habit of attacking him while he’s injured and on pain meds really gets under his skin. “Foster attacked me.”

“So that’s what happened. The Asset couldn’t explain, so we thought he did it.”

Brock keeps his face still no matter how much he wants to wince. They certainly punished him for it, something he didn’t do, while he deserved a reward for saving Brock’s life despite Brock’s direct order to leave him behind.

“No shit, he wasn’t there.”

He sits up gingerly under Sitwell’s scrutinizing stare. The pain in his abdomen is present, but bearable. He pulls his covers back just to discover he’s dressed in a see-through hospital gown. He touches his dressing through it, runs his finger over the stitches. The wrist Foster crushed is purple.

“So you gutted Foster?” Sitwell’s looking at him with undisguised disbelief.

Brock glares up at him. “Yeah. Self-defense. That everyone apparently thinks I’m incapable of.”

“Why did he attack you?”

“I wanted to die, so I asked him to shoot me.” He rolls his eyes. “Fuck, Sitwell, do I have to be debriefed? Officially, I wasn’t even there. You can’t put me in your report to the Secretary. The Asset gutted Foster because he snapped. There. I fixed your problem for you.” He lies back down, feeling a little dizzy. It makes him realize how weak he still is. “What about the mission?”

“We sent someone else to take care of it. It’s no longer your concern. You just focus on your healing.”

Brock huffs a laugh with his eyes closed. “Wow, it’s almost like you’re concerned about me.”

“I’m concerned about tampering with your medical records.” From the tone of his voice, Sitwell must be rolling his eyes, and Brock can easily imagine him do it. "Luckily, I have experience at covering up deaths."

Brock snaps his eyes open, his mind struggling through the haze of painkillers to understand the meaning of those words. "So you did kill me after all, huh?"

"I wish it was me, but it was the blood loss. Doctor Garland brought you back. You should thank her."

Brock stares at the dark ceiling unresponsive, unsure if he's grateful for that. Sitwell sighs above him so softly he might as well be imagining it.

“This is the last time I agreed for something like that. You can’t be trusted to keep things nice and simple for me." Brock catches Sitwell's shadow shaking his head out of the corner of his eye. "If we lost you, the Secretary would have my head on a stake," Sitwell adds in a low voice.

"He wouldn't give a shit," Brock says bitterly, his openness a testament to his high. "How many agents did we lose? We had no proof Rollins was dead. I asked—I begged for a rescue mission. Nobody listened."

"But you aren't agent Rollins, are you?" Sitwell asks, making Brock frown in confusion. "We sent five teams after him, five teams got back with nothing. Sending you would have been nothing but an unnecessary risk. Of course the Secretary never agreed to it."

Brock doesn’t respond, and he thinks he hears Sitwell walk away and talk to someone at the door, but it might as well be just a drug-fueled dream.

 

\--

 

The doctor—Garland, Sitwell said her name was; it's funny how Brock has never cared enough to find out—leads him to the showers through the dimly lit corridor. He’s been off morphine for a few hours now, and he’s favoring his injured side as he walks. She tries to hold his arm at first, but he shrugs her hand off, so she just follows after him instead.

When they enter the room that definitely didn’t have showers originally because why would there be any in a bank, she hands him a pile of folded fabric—a SHIELD-issued t-shirt, sweatpants, and a towel—and a small plastic cube with a button.

“Press this if you need me,” she says and leaves.

He takes off his gown and gets under the warm spray. He’s careful not to wet his dressing as he washes dried remnants of sweat and blood off of his torso. Then his fingers dip between his buttocks and—

There should be a lot of dried blood in there. There’s none. Which means he was cleaned. Which means they know.

He doesn’t have a problem walking around in a see-through gown. He’s used to people seeing him naked and he doesn’t mind. But Hydra knowing what Foster was up to—even if it’s just his doctor—is different somehow. Makes him feel… ashamed. Vulnerable.

He quickly finishes showering and, as he’s drying off, he looks at his reflection in a big mirror above a sink. His stomach sinks at the sight of telltale finger-shaped bruises on his left hip and buttock. There are also less obvious ones around his nape, but all of it together shows quite well what really went down.

And Sitwell saw him. He saw everything through that goddamn gown. Maybe that’s why he seemed nicer. He was pitying him.

And they had thought the Asset did that, too. Holy fuck. Being sneaked up on by the Asset is understandable, but your own teammate? Your subordinate? Masters would have never let something like that happen to him. Shit, what they must think of him…

He quickly gets dressed, his throat burning, and returns to his vault. There’s a duffel bag hidden under the bed, so he kneels on the floor and pulls it out. There’s little inside: a STRIKE jacket, his boots, and his knife, the red streaks on the blade making it look like somebody sloppily wiped it on something. His holster and his gun must be forever lost in the snow.

He grabs the boots to put them on and notices something else that was hiding behind them. He takes the metal bracelet and looks at the watch face with his eyes wide. He certainly wasn’t the one to take it off Foster’s wrist, so it must have been the Asset. Why? Brock vaguely remembers telling him something about the watch when in his dying haze he thought it was Jack who came for him. But it still doesn’t explain why the Asset took it. Even if he somehow understood Foster stole this watch from a dead man, he shouldn’t have cared. He shouldn’t have cared to save Brock’s life either, especially after Brock told him not to. It’s as if their secret interaction in the vault changed something between them, somehow.

He hides the watch and his knife in his pockets, puts his boots and the jacket on and leaves the vault. As he walks the corridor, he passes the Asset’s door and hesitates. He doesn’t have a key this time, but he can see him clearly through the bars. He’s half sitting, half lying on his bed with a drip attached to his arm, clear blue liquid administered to his veins. He’s being prepped to go back in the tank.

“Hey,” Brock says.

The Asset looks up, his eyes empty. There’s no recognition showing on his face. Brock frowns, wondering where his sudden urge to apologize comes from. The Asset would be wiped either way, it’s not his doing.

“You don’t remember me, but you saved my life,” _and I wanna know why,_ “and I wanted to say thank you for that.”

The Asset has no idea what Brock’s talking about, but he nods in acknowledgement. Brock turns away and continues onwards. When he reaches the stairs to the ground level, he spots doctor Garland who's walking the last steps down.

"Excuse me," he says before he has a chance to talk himself out of it.

She stops beside him with her eyebrows raised in a silent question. Brock pulls his t-shirt down nervously.

"Who else was tending to me while I was here?"

She smiles in understanding, and Brock clenches his teeth as he realizes she knows exactly why he's asking.

"Only me, Commander Rumlow."

Brock nods. "Thank you, doctor Garland."

He can sense her watching after him as he climbs the stairs. He's relieved when he leaves the Bank's dim interior onto the sunny sidewalk. The air is cold though, so he zips his jacket up to his chin and gets inside his car.


	11. Captain America

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This fic is now officially diverged from canon--in here, the battle of New York doesn't happen and the Avengers aren't formed. _Yet._

It feels unreal to return to the Triskelion the following day like nothing happened; to pretend it's such a shame Foster died and to pay him respects at the Wall of Valor. It's ridiculous but not new; it's not the first time Brock has to act like he knows less than in reality.

Just like with Jack, SHIELD is more than ready to bury Foster fast and move on. It makes Brock wonder briefly how much his presence really matters to the people he sees every day. People who are used to losing a STRIKE member every once in a while. Does him being the commander make any difference? Probably not, Brock concludes as he walks down the corridor towards the cafeteria, glancing wistfully out the windows. He's dreaming about a cigarette, but he's also hungry, and he needs to gain healthier priorities. He shakes his head, the thought ripping an ugly chuckle out of his throat. What he truly needs is to lie down and die, that would neatly solve all of his problems.

He stands in a queue to the cash register, debating if he wants a burger or something lighter when his pager goes off. He lets out an exasperated sigh and digs it out of his pocket. There are only three people in the whole SHIELD who page him: Fury who hasn't done that in months, Sitwell who's been avoiding him all morning, and Pierce. Whoever it is this time, it doesn't bode well.

He reads the message--Pierce's asking him for an immediate meeting in his office. Fuck. He briefly considers pretending he hasn't gotten it and just going about his day, but that would blow up in his face pretty quick. He puts the pager away, takes a deep breath and turns on his heel to exit the cafeteria. He passes Barton on the way who grins and waves at him, but Brock ignores him.

His body it trembling slightly in nervousness as he rides the elevator to the top floor. Reasonably, he knows Pierce couldn't care less about what happened on the mission, maybe besides the fact that Brock's inattention almost botched it, but he's done worse. It's unlikely Pierce wants to meet _immediately_ because of that. But at the same time, Brock can't come up with another reason good enough. What if Pierce somehow got wind of what Foster almost did to him? What if Garland told him, or Sitwell made his own assumptions and blabbed like he does? What if he thinks that what Brock stopped from happening happened and--and--and what exactly? What would Pierce even _do_ about that?

The elevator ride ends sooner than desired and Brock steps out on the corridor, shaking his head to clear it. Whatever Pierce wants from him, he'll deal with it, like he always does.

When Brock enters the office, he finds Pierce standing in front of the tall windows with his back to the door. He's holding a tumbler glass, but the liquid in it is paler than whisky. Brock stands at attention at the door.

"Sir?"

Pierce turns and smiles at him, and Brock promptly squashes any fearful assumptions it causes. Pierce's often kind to him; it doesn't have to be a smile of pity. He beckons him inside, but Brock takes only one step in and closes the door.

"I just got wonderful news, Commander Rumlow." He ambles to his desk and sets the glass down. He looks at the expensive watch on his wrist. "And in about twenty...eight minutes, the whole world will hear them, too."

Brock stays silent, letting him build up the tension. It's typical of him when something really big comes to light. Pierce sits at the edge of his desk and locks his blue eyes with Brock's.

"One of our teams has found the frozen body of Captain America in the Arctic."

His eyes don't move in the slightest as they scrutinize Brock's face and watch him react. The news is too much for Brock to keep a full control of it, and he realizes too late. He hopes whatever Pierce saw hasn't displeased him. Pierce himself keeps a straight face, so it’s impossible to tell. He leans back.

"I know. Quite shocking." He picks up his glass to take a small sip, his eyes wandering the ceiling in thought.

"Is he--" Brock starts but cuts himself off, his teeth pulling his lip into his mouth to chew before he realizes and leaves it alone. Pierce's sharp gaze is back on him, and it makes him regret speaking up. "Is he alive?" he asks.

"Oh, I'm sure he is." Pierce nods. "The body's untouched. It was basically stuck in a natural cryostasis."

This time, Brock makes sure none of the emotions that surge through him show on his face. He can barely believe this is really happening. Just the previous day he woke up after dying and being brought back to life, and now he's learning that his childhood hero has been found alive and well-preserved in ice after seventy years. Maybe Brock _wasn't_ brought back to life. Maybe he crossed over to some better universe with Captain America in it instead of Foster.

Though he'd rather he ended up in one where Jack was alive.

"What does it mean for us?"

Pierce raises a corner of his mouth in a bitter smirk. "I'm sure Fury will do everything he can to keep him in SHIELD."

Brock nods in agreement. Pierce stands up with a soft sigh and walks back to the windows, his hands clasped on the small of his back.

"He will try to put his Avengers Initiative in motion again," he says. "With Captain America, it will be more dangerous than we expected. Even Zola didn't foresee that."

"So what's the plan?" Pierce wouldn't have called him in if he hadn't already had one.

"We'll keep him close. We'll make him command STRIKE."

It punches breath out of Brock, but even though he stays silent, Pierce picks up on the change in the air. He turns his head, facing Brock with one side of it.

"He has to feel confident. You'll stay close to him, make him feel welcome. Be a friend." Pierce looks away again. "As long as neither he nor Nick suspect a thing, we can keep working toward our goal. But if they become suspicious... we'll have to kill them."

 

\--

 

The following weeks--months--pass in a blur for Brock. Still unfit for fieldwork, he's stuck on desk duty, and the most interesting moments of the day are updates on Captain America's condition. Returning to an empty home isn't any more bearable than it has been for the past months, but one thing changed for him--he spends most of his free time in bed, sleeping his life away.

He has been expecting that what he went through with Foster will add to his nightmares, but it turns out to not be the case. Furthermore, his regular nightmares stop plaguing him as well. It's like killing Foster made him realize he doesn't need to be afraid anymore, that he's now strong and skilled enough to take care of himself. For the first time in months, he doesn't have to drink to sleep soundly, so as soon as he's home from work, he returns to his bed and effortlessly slips into oblivion, as if making up for all the hours of sleep he had lost in the past.

When he's not asleep, he lies in bed, thinking back to the dream he had right after his assault and wondering if it was all it was. He still remembers it quite vividly, weeks after. The little details of Jack's face, the timbre of his voice, how it vibrated with suppressed amusement when he was reciting the pancake recipe.

Sitwell said Brock had died after all. So maybe it wasn't a dream. Maybe Jack's waiting for him out there, wherever 'there' is.

Sometimes, at the dead of night, when lying sleeplessly in bed, he takes his gun and puts it in his mouth. He feels the barrel's weight on his tongue and tastes traces of gun oil on the smooth metal. Embraces the primal fear he feels, notes how his hand trembles when he thinks about clicking the safety off. Then he pulls it out and puts it back in the holster and inside the drawer right beside his engagement ring and Jack's watch. Not because he's afraid of dying, but because he knows Jack would have never approved of this, alive or not, and because he fears that if he does this, he'll end up in a different place than Jack.

If only he knew what else to do with his life. If only he had something more to anticipate than finally meeting Jack on the other side.

So he wastes his life away in bed, hoping to at least see him in his dreams.

 

\--

 

Brock doesn't have any expectations when early in the morning, he receives a message about Captain America having woken up. It doesn't really differ from any other update concerning his health he has gotten so far, though his chest feels tight when he reads it this time. It means their meeting is coming soon after all, and Brock dreads it as much as he anticipates it.

As he gets ready for the day, he thinks back to the days when Captain America was someone he looked up to, even though, to a ten-year-old, he was more of a comic book hero than a historical figure. But it was helpful to know that once upon a time, there was a man who was short and skinny like Brock, and he ended World War II and became a legend. It motivated him to become something greater than somebody's punching bag.

Although he's no longer a child, and he knows Captain America coming back from the dead causes more complications than joy, he can't help to be excited. In that joy that comes deep from within his core, he relates to the hundreds of millions Americans delighted that their national hero has miraculously returned.

That excitement dies down a little when he enters the Triskelion and work takes over his thoughts. He gets on the elevator with Barton who must have already drunk a whole coffee pot because he's grinning from ear to ear. Wanting to avoid being drawn into a conversation, Brock pulls out his phone and pretends to read something while mentally planning out his work day.

The elevator stops, and lost in thought, Brock doesn't realize right away it's not his floor. Eyes glued to his phone's screen, he takes a step and almost bumps into someone who has just gotten in.

"Oh! Let me introduce you," he hears Coulson's annoying voice--when did he return from New York?--so he looks up. And then some, until he meets clear blue eyes smiling down at him.

"Cap, this is Brock Rumlow, Commander of STRIKE. You will be now co-leading the team. Commander--"

"Steve Rogers," Captain America cuts in, offering his hand. Brock shakes it automatically.

It isn't how he imagined their first meeting. In his head, Captain America was dressed in his iconic suit and had his shield strapped to his back. He had that authoritative energy about him that almost-- _almost--_ intimidated Brock, but he never let it show. He grinned and welcomed Captain America as en equal.

Here in reality, Captain America is... Brock supposes he's Steve Rogers. His hair is subtly styled with gel, he's wearing a brown leather jacket and beige pants that are so boring they must have been picked up by Coulson, and apart from being tall and jacked, he doesn't really seem powerful. If anything, he looks a little nervous. Brock feels his lips stretch.

"Welcome to SHIELD," he says. Rogers returns the smile, and Brock thinks he looks relieved.

"We're on our way to the gym," Coulson says like anybody fucking asks him, but that's Coulson to you. "Cap murdered all the punching bags back in New York."

Rogers' smile fades, and there's sadness around his eyes, but as soon as he realizes Brock's watching him and meets his gaze, he tries to cover it up with another polite smile that's only one second away from a grimace.

Interesting.

"That's us," Barton says when the electronic voice announces Operations Level. "Have fun at the gym, you two."

Brock nods at Rogers. "I'm looking forward to working with you," he says maybe a little too stiffly, but he's genuine.

They get off the elevator, and Barton nudges him with his elbow. He's still grinning like an idiot, and Brock suddenly realizes that _this_ must be the reason of his cheerfulness, that he must have known from before he even came to the Trisk this morning.

"What?!" he barks at him in annoyance.

"You _smiled_ ,"Barton says like it's the second greatest news of the past couple of months, right after Cap having been found. "This is the first time I've seen you smile since..." he doesn't finish.

And it hits Brock with all its strength just how right Barton is.

"Yeah, well... It's not every day you meet _Captain America_ , is it?" His mouth stretches again.

He has a feeling that his life will soon become very different.


	12. Captain America pt. II

**_7 months later_ **

Brock parks his car in the Triskelion's parking lot at seven fifty. He kills the engine and unbuckles his seat belt, but doesn't open the door to get out. He stays seated, eyes glued to the car's clock, watching the minutes change. When the fifty-eight becomes fifty-nine, he sighs and finally tears his gaze away to look at the bunch of little pink and yellow flowers names of which he doesn't know, discarded on the passenger seat.

Back when he was still bringing flowers to pay his old commander respects at the Wall of Valor, he always did so early in the morning, when no one but maybe janitors could see him. He was ashamed of doing that, maybe because he was the only one, or maybe because it made him feel like a widow. He didn't want his subordinates to get the wrong idea. Today, he shouldn't be ashamed, and yet, he came early, too.

He exits the car with another sigh, the flowers clenched in his hand. It's hard to believe it's been a year already, that he has been surviving this long without Jack by his side. It feels like all he's been doing during that time was to lie in bed and wait for him to come back, but on the other hand, a lot has changed.

He enters the Triskelion confidently, but his step slows down when he notices someone else already standing in front of the Wall. His heart skips a beat when he recognizes the muscled back of Captain America.

The presence of his childhood hero in his life must be the most major change that has occurred since he irrevocably lost the love of his life. They aren't particularly close, but they're friends, and of course Steve knows about Jack—about who he was to Brock and what happened to him—but Brock hasn't expected to see him here. He hasn't even suspected Steve would know today's the first anniversary of Jack's death.

He hesitates at first, but then continues on his way across the empty hall. He takes a deep breath when he comes to a stop right beside Steve, but doesn't say anything. His eyes easily find Jack's name—right beside Foster's, but Brock tries not to pay attention to that infuriating detail—and as he's standing there, unmoving and unfocused, his mind wandering freely, for a moment it feels like it's Jack himself standing beside him, shoulders brushing. It helps Steve is about the same height. But Brock swiftly snaps out of it and bends over to leave a little mangled flowers at the foot of the Wall. It doesn't matter—they'll wilt by the end of the day.

"I take it Barton told you?" he guesses, but when he finally looks at Steve, he realizes his mistake.

Steve is looking at the bottom of the Wall, where the names of the members of SSR are. Though Steve quickly recovers, and his eyes snap to the top row, Brock has managed to track his line of sight.

_Sergeant J. Barnes_

"He did," Steve confirms, but Brock suspects his presence here today is a coincidence after all, that he isn't here for Jack.

"I can't believe it's been a year," he says despite that. "When I stop and think about it, I realize a lot has happened since then, but it doesn't _feel_ like a whole year."

"It doesn't feel like seventy years for me, either." Steve smiles, but it's a bitter one.

Brock nods in thought. "Yeah. I guess you can't feel the passage of time when you're waiting to wake up from a nightmare, whether you're frozen or just grieving."

Steve's smile fades, but he nods in agreement. His eyes travel back to the bottom row, and Brock looks at Jack's name again. They stay like this for a minute before Brock turns to Steve and speaks.

"Thanks for being here. Even if you didn't come for me, I've been dreading of doing this alone."

Steve smiles at him, and this time it seems more genuine. "It was a spur-of-the-moment kind of thing, but I was expecting you," he admits. "Any plans for tonight?"

Brock shrugs. "His grave is empty and I haven't been in touch with his family since Christmas, so if that's what you've had in mind, then no. I'll probably just lie in bed with a bottle of booze." And try not to cry, but that he doesn't feel comfortable enough to say out loud.

"I could accompany you, if you don't mind," Steve says, and then quickly amends, "Not to your bed. We could go out. I've only been to one pub in Washington so far, you could show me around... if you want."

Pierce would definitely be pleased, but his instructions aside, Brock finds he wants that very much.

"Are you suggesting _bar hopping,_ Cap?" He grins slyly, but when he sees Steve smile timidly in response, his expression softens. "Sure I'd like some company tonight. I'll text you the details."

Steve looks both surprised and relieved. "Great."

Brock throws a last look at the Wall and walks away towards the elevator, clapping Steve's shoulder on the way.

 

\--

 

Brock comes early. He has been planning to save a table, get a drink, and wait for Steve there. Decide what he wants to achieve, maybe strategize. What he doesn't expect is Steve already being there, waiting outside, leaning against his motorcycle. He smiles and waves when he sees Brock exit a cab.

They enter a pub Brock hasn't been to in ages. He used to like coming here when he was still single; he and Jack weren't really going out all that much. They had one wine bar they liked to visit, but it would be too sophisticated for tonight; Brock's aiming for getting shitfaced.

He asks Steve if he's okay with neat whisky, then sends him to save them a table while he gets the drinks. After he pays and turns around to carry them over, he sees Steve chose a tiny table against the wall near the exit, as if he wanted both to take as little space as possible and have a short escape route. Brock can't say he's surprised. He sets the glasses down and takes a seat across from Steve. They stay silent for a moment, Brock drinking and Steve watching his surroundings. Or maybe just looking around the place. Brock supposes it's both when it comes to him.

"You know, way back when, I couldn't for the life of me understand how people can drink neat whisky," Brock interrupts the silence, looking at the amber liquid in his glass. "Jack always did. Then he was gone..." He swallows thickly, but forces himself to continue. "And I wanted to... I don't know... I thought doing things his way would somehow bring me closer to him. That it'd help me understand him better." He looks up at Steve's face, expecting to see pity on it, but he only finds understanding. He grins. "And that's the story of how I learned to drink it neat. It's still disgusting though."

Steve smiles at that. He picks up his glass and takes a good long look at it. "After Bucky died, I drank a whole bottle." He looks up at Brock. "And that's a very short story of how I found out the serum made it impossible for me to get drunk."

Brock can't stop a surprised chuckle. "So you're gonna stay sober while I'm gradually drinking myself into oblivion. Great. That'll be fun and definitely not embarrassing at all." Despite his words, he downs the glass and wipes his mouth on the back of his hand. "Don't tell me STRIKE put you on it to get some blackmail material on me."

"They didn't," Steve says, and not for the first time, Brock's surprised at his perfect poker face. "But then if they did, I wouldn't admit it, would I?"

Brock laughs. Not at Steve's little joke—God, he _hopes_ it's a joke—but at how different his idea of what Captain America would be like is from what he's actually like.

"Looks like I'll have to be more careful around you than I thought, huh?"

But Steve waves it off and mutters he was just kidding. They sink into silence once again, until Brock nudges Steve's hand.

"Come on, finish your drink and let's get the hell out of here."

Steve looks up, surprised. "Already?"

"I told you, we're bar hopping. The next place has a pool table, you any good at that?"

Steve downs his drink in one go, and they get up and leave. Steve makes a beeline for his motorcycle, but Brock grabs his arm and stirs him away.

"It's not that far," he explains, pointing at the gray building at the end of the street.

This pub is livelier than the previous one, but they manage to find seats near the already occupied pool table. Steve orders drinks, and they sip on them while waiting for their turn.

"Did you play? You and Jack?" The music is loud enough that Steve needs to raise his voice for Brock to hear him.

"Uhhh," Brock says, surprised but pleased at the question. "A few times. He wasn't a good opponent, frankly. For him, it was about putting balls into the holes."

"But isn't that what pool's about?"

"Of course not. It's about strategy. But Jack, he never saw the big picture. In pool or otherwise."

It feels particularly good to talk about Jack with Steve; perhaps because Steve never met him. Every other person in Brock's life has some idea of who Jack was, usually a negative one. Brock doesn't know how much Steve knows exactly, but he's sure it hasn't been enough for him to form any kind of impression.

Steve nods in understanding. "Not much of a strategist?"

"No," Brock says, shaking his head with a bitter smile. "But he had other values. He was extremely loyal, for one. The kind of friend everyone wants to have." He drops his gaze to his drink and downs it. "The kind you don't believe could ever leave." He nods at Steve's almost empty glass. "I'll get another round."

When he returns with a couple of glasses in his hands, Steve is standing at the pool table, chalking a cue. He waves him over when he notices him.

"You know," he says as Brock sets the glasses down on the nearest table, "I've no idea what this does."

Brock barks a laugh and picks up the other cue. "It adds friction. You don't want your cue to slip off the ball."

"That I don't." Steve hands him the chalk and circles the table to break.

The conversation flows easily as they play. The game is long enough to get more drinks in the meantime, and as they leave for yet another pub, Brock is in that good tipsy, soon-to-be-drunk mood. Though Steve is definitely sober, they're both far more relaxed than they were before their first drink, and Steve even orders whisky based cocktails "to make drinking more fun".

Once they decide to call it a night and leave, Brock is drunk enough to have trouble walking straight, but sober enough to feel embarrassed in front of completely sober Captain America, so he feels a need to apologize. Cap laughs and says it's fine and even takes a hold of Brock's arm to support him after he stumbles on his way to where Cap left his motorcycle. Cap insists on giving him a lift home, and Brock doesn't need much convincing.

He can't help but notice the romanticism in the situation as he's settled behind Steve, pressed against his back, his arms wrapped tightly around his waist. There's wind in his hair and stars above them, and his thoughts easily drift to Jack. He thinks how Jack had always wanted to get a motorcycle but never got around to it; how he'd like to ride with Jack through wilderness at night with just the moonlight guiding them.

He forgets those thoughts when Steve parks in front of his apartment building. He slips off the motorcycle, mumbling his thanks.

"Thanks for tonight," Steve says. "I had fun."

Brock scoffs. "I should be thanking you. If you hadn't offered hanging out, I'd be crying in my bed, hugging an empty bottle right now or some shit." And he's definitely had too much to drink if he's being so open, but that was the plan, wasn't it? "But yeah. I had fun, too. So thanks."

Steve smiles. "Goodnight, Brock. See you at work."

Brock bids him goodnight and staggers towards his block. He doesn't hear Steve's motorcycle start up until he's inside.


End file.
